There was a knock at the door; then Harry Dawson, who was the editor of the college literary periodical, entered. He was a pleasant-looking fellow, lively in speech and manner, and with an engaging brightness in his brown eyes. He began briskly:
“I came round, Wallace, to ask you if you wouldn’t let us print that theme of yours that was read in class. It’s one of the best things I’ve heard this year. I asked Professor Worthington afterwards who wrote it, and he referred me to you.”
Lester, sitting at his desk, was drawing lines with his pencil on his blotting-pad. “No, I guess not, Dawson,” he replied. “Thanks just the same, but I don’t care to have it printed.”
“But why not?” Dawson urged. “As Mr. Worthington said, it’s a subject that the whole college is interested in. And to have it treated by you, with your record in athletics—”
“I don’t care to have it printed. I’m sorry.”
Dawson was disposed to argue. “Don’t you think you ought to subordinate your own preference? A college publication has the right to expect the support of the fellows. You oughtn’t to have any false modesty about such a thing as this.”
“It isn’t false modesty. I simply—”
“Sure, it is,” interrupted Richard. “Give him the theme, Lester, don’t be such a pig.”
“Keep out of this, will you, Dick?” Lester raised his head to glare angrily at his roommate. He turned then to Dawson. “That theme isn’t going to be printed; that’s all there is about it.”