Another plague visited the Pecks. Number four was chemical, not zoölogical in its character, and while its effect lasted it seemed more severe than any of its predecessors. If you wish to know what it was like,--I advise strongly against the experiment,--pour two ounces of sulphuretted hydrogen into an open dish in a closed room. As Duncan reported sadly to Owen the next day, "It smelt like the concentrated essence of rotten eggs, as if a whole car-load of 'em had been stewed down into a spoonful." After this Duncan openly declared for peace, but Donald hardened his heart. Owen, once more appealed to, approached Payner again, but the avenger was obdurate. He would not take the apology of one for both, and he would not undertake to distinguish between two indistinguishables; they were both bad until both were good. * * * * * The names of the prize winners in composition were read aloud in chapel. Two were awarded prizes and one received honorable mention. When Mr. Graham announced that he was about to read the names, Rob felt a thrill of sudden emotion, and, dropping his eyes like a timid girl abashed at public praise, listened expectant, half convinced that the next moment the glances of his neighbors would be aimed at him. And when the names of the fortunate were read, with no Robert Owen among them, and the applause burst forth about him, he kept his gaze still fixed upon the floor, penetrated through and through with shame at his presumption. In a moment, however, he held up his head and joined in the clapping with a vehemence that added a second or two to its length. Why should he care? He had as much right to try for the prize as any one. Nobody knew he had tried anyway, except Simmons, and Simmons would keep quiet. [Illustration: The Chapel Stairs.] So Rob jostled his way downstairs with the crowd, and strove to think no more of his disappointment. It kept recurring, however, in heavy moments during the Greek recitation, and once he was almost caught napping by a stray question as he dwelt longingly on the satisfaction he might have had in making the announcement to his father. A prize for an essay would have been an antidote for a whole season of parental objections to baseball! That morning was blue all through. Simmons's well-meant commiseration buried him still deeper in the dumps. He brooded in unreasonable discouragement over the fancied failures of the year. The relay prize, his only success, had come to him in defeat through the efforts of another. In baseball he was to be numbered among the substitutes; his scholarship was mediocre; he possessed none of the qualities which bring popularity. Then he bethought himself of Carle, and the dangers of popularity and success as exemplified in the career of that youth, and felt some comfort. Mediocrity was at least safe.