“It shouldn’t be,” Lester answered. His friend laughed, not taking the remark seriously.
The ballots were counted that evening. Lester and Richard were as usual silently engaged with their books when there was a tumultuous rush up the stairs and a banging on the door. Lester opened the door; instantly half a dozen joyous youths seized upon him, grasped his hands, beat him on the back and poured out the good news.
“You got it all right.”
“You beat Farrar by a hundred votes.”
“You beat Colby by a hundred and fifty.”
“Well, old top, how does it feel to be marshal?”
Lester showed his embarrassment. “It’s mighty good of you fellows to come and tell me,” he said. “But I don’t deserve to be marshal at all.”
“Oh, that’s the way they always talk,” replied Joe Bingham. “We know better than you do whether you deserve it or not.”
“No, you don’t. You ask my roommate here; he knows me better than any one else.”
Lester spoke on a sudden wild inspiration. If he were given a chance, he would tell the crowd, resign, let Farrar have the place to which he was entitled—