“And the fifth, Cartwright?”
“James Monroe, 1817 to 1825.”
“And the sixth, Elliot?”
“John Quincy Adams, 1825 to 1829.”
“And the seventh, Cartwright?”
Nat racked his brains. “I don’t remember, sir.”
“You don’t remember, Cartwright, or do you simply not know?” Haskins paused. “There is a considerable difference,” he added. He turned his attention back to Elliot.
“William Henry Harrison, I think, sir.”
“No, he was the ninth president, Elliot, 1841, but as he died of pneumonia only a month after his inauguration, we won’t be spending a lot of time on him,” added Haskins. “Make sure everyone can tell me the name of the ninth president by tomorrow morning. Now let’s go back to the founding fathers. You may all take notes as I require you to produce a three-page essay on the subject by the time we next meet.”
Nat had filled three long sheets even before the lesson had ended, while Tom barely managed a page. As they left the classroom at the end of the lesson, Elliot brushed quickly past them.
“He already looks like a real rival,” remarked Tom.
Nat didn’t comment.
What he couldn’t know was that he and Ralph Elliot would be rivals for the rest of their lives.
7
The annual football game between Hotchkiss and Taft was the sporting highlight of the semester. As both teams were undefeated that season, little else was discussed once the midterms were over, and for the jocks, long before midterms began.
Fletcher found himself caught up in the excitement, and in his weekly letter to his mother named every member of the team, although he realized that she wouldn’t have a clue who any of them were.
The game was due to be played on the last Saturday in October and once the final whistle had been blown, all boarders would have the rest of the weekend off, plus an extra day should they win.
On the Monday before the match, Fletcher’s class sat their first midterms, but not before the principal had declared at morning assembly that, “Life consists of a series of tests and examinations, which is why we take them every term at Hotchkiss.”
On Tuesday evening Fletcher phoned his mother to tell her he thought he’d done well.
On Wednesday he told Jimmy he wasn’t so sure.
By Thursday, he’d looked up everything he hadn’t included, and wondered if he had even achieved a pass grade.
On Friday morning, class rankings were posted on the school notice board and the preps were headed by the name of Fletcher Davenport. He immediately ran to the nearest phone and rang his mother. Ruth couldn’t hide her delight when she learned her son’s news, but didn’t tell him that she wasn’t surprised. “You must celebrate,” she said. Fletcher would have done so, but felt he couldn’t when he saw who had come bottom of the class.
At the full school assembly on Saturday morning, prayers were offered by the chaplain “for our undefeated football team, who played only for the glory of our Lord.” Our Lord was then vouchsafed the name of every player and asked if his Holy Spirit might be bestowed on each and every one of them. The principal was obviously in no doubt which team God would be supporting on Saturday afternoon.
At Hotchkiss, everything was decided on seniority, even a boy’s place in the bleachers. During their first term, preps were relegated to the far end of the field so both boys sat in the right-hand corner of the stand every other Saturday, and watched their heroes extend the season’s unbeaten run, a record they realized Taft also enjoyed.
As the Taft game fell on a homecoming weekend, Jimmy’s parents invited Fletcher to join them for a tailgate picnic before the kickoff. Fletcher didn’t tell any of the other boys in preps, because he felt it would only make them jealous. It was bad enough being top of the class, without being invited to watch the Taft game with an old boy who had seats on the center line.
“What’s your dad like?” asked Jimmy, after lights-out the night before the game.
“He’s great,” said Fletcher, “but I should warn you that he’s a Taft man, and a Republican. And how about your dad? I’ve never met a senator before.”
“He’s a politician to his fingertips, or at least that’s how the press describe him,” said Jimmy. “Not that I’m sure what it means.”
On the morning of the game no one was able to concentrate during chemistry, despite Mr. Bailey’s enthusiasm for testing the effects of acid on zinc, not least because Jimmy had turned the gas off at the main, so Mr. Bailey couldn’t even get the Bunsen burners lit.
At twelve o’clock a bell rang, releasing 380 screaming boys to charge out into the courtyard. They resembled nothing less than a warring tribe, with their cries of, “Hotchkiss, Hotchkiss, Hotchkiss will win, death to all Bearcats.”