“Because,” replied Varrell, with a smile of satisfaction, “you are Richard Melvin, the President of the senior class and the most famous full-back that ever shed glory—”
“Cut that out!” interrupted Melvin, authoritatively. “This is a serious matter, and we can’t afford to have any confounded nonsense mixed up with it.”
Varrell’s smile faded reluctantly away. “I am serious. You can do the thing without giving the fellow a chance to face you down or put you in a ridiculous light with the rest of the school, or advertise your cheek. You hold too strong a position to run any risk. I’m a newcomer and practically unknown.”
“Why shouldn’t both of us go?” said Melvin, after an interval of consideration, still shrinking from an odious task.
Again his friend had a decisive reply. “No, he will take it better and it will do more good if you go quietly by yourself, as if you alone knew it.”
Dick looked at his watch. “I think you are right, and if you are, the sooner the job is over, the better; so here goes!”
With these words he clapped his cap on his head and started for the door. Before Varrell could raise himself from his armchair and get across the room, he heard his visitor jumping quickly down the stairs.
“Oh, Dick!”
“Well, what?” came from the landing below.
“Remember that he’s slippery. Give it to him straight. Don’t let him lie out of it.”