"And McPherson will be just as good," added Rob, promptly. "That makes three."
"Yes, that makes three," repeated Laughlin, with a look of amusement stealing over his broad face. "Only I'm not so sure about McPherson."
"Well, the baseball men are, and we ought to know," retorted Rob. "What's this important thing you wanted to tell me?" he added, turning on Ware.
Ware grinned across at Laughlin. "What was it, Dave? I can't think, can you?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied the football man.
"Here! let me through!" commanded Rob, who now perceived that the pair were holding him up for their own amusement. "I'm ten minutes late for the meeting already." And he charged past the two triflers toward the room at the end of the corridor.
"You're late!" declared Poole, as Rob opened the door of Number 7. "The election's over."
"I'm sorry. Dave and Ware tackled me outside and wouldn't let me by."
"Your vote wouldn't have been any use, anyway," remarked Durand. "It was a unanimous vote."