Part 5 (1/2)
”Phew!” exclaimed the latter. ”I guess I lived too high last summer and put on weight. This is taking it out of me finely; I can feel whole pounds melting off. It doesn't seem to bother you any,” he added.
”No, I haven't much flesh about me,” panted Neil; ”but I'm glad this is the last time around, just the same!”
After their baths in the little green-roofed locker-house the two walked back to the yard together, Paul, as Neil saw, being in close companions.h.i.+p with a big youth whose name, according to Foster, was Tom Cowan.
”He played right-guard last year,” said Foster. ”He's a soph; this is his third year.”
”Third year!” exclaimed Neil. ”But how--”
”Oh, Cowan was too busy to pa.s.s his exams last year,” said Foster with a grin. ”So they let him stay a soph. He doesn't care; a little thing like that never bothers Cowan.” His tone was rather contemptuous.
”Is he liked?” Neil asked.
”Oh, yes; he's very popular among a small and select circle of friends--a very small circle.” Then he dismissed Cowan with an airy wave of one hand. ”By the way,” he continued, ”have you any candidate for the presidency of your cla.s.s?”
”No,” Neil replied. ”I haven't heard anything about it yet.”
”Good; then you can vote for 'Fan' Livingston. He's a _protege_ of mine, you see; used to know him at St. Mathias; you'll like him. He's an awfully good, manly, straightforward chap, just the fellow for the place. The election comes off next Thursday evening. How about your friend?”
”Gale? I don't think he has any one in view. I guess you can count on his vote, too.”
”Thanks; just mention it to him, will you? I'm booming Livingston, and I want to see him win. Can't you come round some evening the first of the week? I'd like you to meet him. And meanwhile just talk him up a bit, will you?”
Neil promised and made an appointment to meet the candidate the following Sat.u.r.day night at Foster's room in McLean Hall. The two parted at the gate, Foster going up to his room and Neil traversing the campus and the common to his own quarters. As he opened the study door he was surprised to hear voices within. Paul and his new acquaintance, Tom Cowan, were sitting side by side on the window-seat.
”h.e.l.lo,” greeted the former. ”How'd it go? Like old times, wasn't it?
Neil, I want you to meet Mr. Cowan. Cowan has quarters up-stairs here.
He's an old player, and we've been telling each other how good we are.”
Cowan looked for an instant as though he didn't quite appreciate the latter remark, but summoned a smile as he shook hands with Neil and complimented him on his playing in Hillton's last game with St. Eustace.
Neil replied with extraordinary politeness. He was always extraordinarily polite to persons he didn't fancy, and his dislike of Cowan was instant and hearty. Cowan looked to be fully twenty-three years old, and owned to being twenty-one. He was fully six feet two, and apparently weighed about two hundred pounds. His face was rather handsome in a coa.r.s.e, heavy-featured style, and his hands, as Neil observed, were not quite clean. Later, Neil discovered that they never were.
After listening politely for some moments to Cowan's tales of former football triumphs and defeats, in all of which the narrator played, according to his words, a prominent part, Neil broke into the stream of his eloquence and told Paul of his meeting with Foster, and of their talk regarding the freshman presidency.
”Well,” answered Paul, smiling at Cowan, ”you'll have to get out of that promise to Foster or whatever his name is, because we've got a plan better than that. The fact is, Neil, I'm going to try for the presidency myself!”
”I suppose you're fooling?” gasped Neil.
”Not a bit! Why shouldn't I have a fling at it? Cowan here has promised to help; in fact, it was he that suggested it. With his help and yours, and with the kind a.s.sistance of one or two fellows I know here, I dare say I can pull out on top. Anyhow, there's no harm in trying.”
”I think you'll win,” said Cowan. ”This chump Livingston that Foster is booming is a regular milksop; does nothing but grind, so they say; came out of St. Mathias with all kinds of silly prizes and such. What the fellows always want is a good, popular chap that goes in for athletics and that will make a name for himself.”
”Foster said Livingston was something of a dab at baseball,” said Neil.
”Baseball!” cried Cowan. ”What's baseball? Why not puss-in-the-corner? A chap with a football reputation like Gale here can walk all round your baseball man. We'll carry it with a rus.h.!.+ You'll see! Freshmen are like a lot of sheep--show 'em the way and they'll fall over themselves to get there.”
”Well, we're freshmen ourselves, you know,” said Neil sweetly. Cowan looked nonplussed for a moment. Then--
”Oh, but you fellows are different; you've got sense. I was speaking of the general run of freshmen,” he explained.