“No, he doesn’t deserve it,” said Richard quietly. “I didn’t vote for him.”
The fellows laughed; they took Richard’s remark as a joke. They stayed a few moments longer, holding a jubilation over their friend’s success, and then clattered noisily down the stairs.
A few moments later another caller appeared to offer his congratulations. It was Farrar, who had just been elected second marshal. He was a square-set, stocky fellow, with a good deal of force showing in his face; he was not handsome; he was blunt and downright of manner. Although through their prominence in athletics he and Lester had been brought into close association with each other throughout their college course, they had never been particularly friendly or sympathetic.
When Lester saw who his visitor was he stood up; he felt his face growing hot. Richard swung round in his chair and looked on; the realization that he was interested heightened Lester’s embarrassment.
“I want to congratulate you,” said Farrar, taking Lester’s hand. “I want to be among the first.”
“Thank you,” said Lester. “It ought really to have been you, Jim.”
“No, it oughtn’t. I won’t say that I’m not disappointed; of course any fellow who felt that he stood some show of winning such an honor can’t help being disappointed a little. But the best man won.”
“No,” said Lester slowly, “that’s just what he didn’t do.”
“Oh, yes, he did. I mightn’t have admitted it a month or two ago; I’d have been likely to say to myself then that you won by making up to fellows for their votes. But you didn’t win that way; you won on your record fair and square. And I don’t feel half so disappointed as I would have felt if you’d got it by electioneering instead of by just plugging away at your job and letting your record speak for you. That’s why I say the best man won and the class is to be congratulated.”
He gave Lester’s hand another firm squeeze. After he had gone, Lester sat down again at his desk.