Dickinson was in his room. He had just returned, also planning for a long pull at his books, the usual evening routine for him. Melvin banged at the door, then jerked it open with little ceremony. Dickinson looked up in mild wonder.
“Hello! I thought you had consecrated your evening to the Muses. What’s up? You look as if you were on the war-path.”
“I am,” answered the visitor, fiercely. His face was set in harsh lines, while his voice, which he vainly strove to control, came forth choked and strained and trembling. “Do you know what makes a professional?”
“Why, I suppose I do,” replied the wondering Dickinson, who was giving less attention to the question than to his friend’s unaccountable agitation.
“Well, what is it?”
“Why, to play for money or your board, or any such compensation.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, to compete with professionals, or for money prizes, or—”
“Or what?” demanded the questioner.
“Or take part in some kind of an open contest, which the governing boards for some technical reason or other forbid. I never understood about it very well,—in fact, never concerned myself with it. It doesn’t affect us, and it seemed to me quite enough to know the general rules. The genuine amateur doesn’t need rules, anyway. His own instinct for what’s right and fair would keep him straight.”