“Then I’ll tell you what I will do,” Dickinson declared, giving the arm of the chair a blow with his fist. “I’ll insist that you run the mile again as you did last year.”
“No, sir!” said Melvin, and set his lips.
“You’ll have to if I insist upon it. You don’t play baseball, and you have nothing at all to do in the spring. I can bring so much pressure to bear upon you that you simply can’t resist.”
To this Melvin made no immediate reply, but quietly pondered.
“What do you think, Wrenn?” said Dickinson, turning to Varrell, who had been a silent witness to the conversation. “Isn’t he just the man to hold the confidence of the school? And he couldn’t be expected to run if he were manager, could he?”
“Of course not,” replied Varrell, promptly.
“Then will you be my assistant and help me collect the money?” demanded Melvin, turning to the last speaker.
But Varrell was not easily caught. “You don’t need any assistant,” he replied, with a grin. “You’re equal to it all yourself. The Athletic Association wouldn’t elect me, anyway.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” remarked Dickinson.
The trio parted with the question still unsettled. “That was great generalship,” said Dickinson to himself, exultantly, as he limped downstairs. “He’s scared as death of the mile run. I guess I’ll land him.”