“Looks like it might be a roll of manuscript, too,” suggested Peg, humorously. “Wouldn’t it be queer if Mr. Holwell had entered as a contestant for his own prize?”
“You’re away off in your guess,” ventured Clint Babbett; “for when he passed us I could plainly see that it was a printed paper booklet, and one that looked as if it might be an old relic of his minstrel days!”
Nat shrank back, and said nothing; but when Leslie glanced curiously that way, he discovered that once more the color had fled from the cheeks of the boaster.
“Ginger!” muttered Leslie to himself, “I wonder what ails Nat anyway? He’s acting just as if he was in mortal fear of something jumping at him.”
Minutes passed, and more people continued to arrive, the big room beginning to fill up, for a great deal of interest was being taken in the awarding of the prize. So much had been said from time to time about the keen competition, that the excitement among the boys and girls was at white heat.
Even Mr. Loft, the librarian, whose superior airs had so offended the boys of the town, had condescended to grace the affair with his presence, though never before had he been known to attend a meeting like this.
“I’m beginning to have some hopes that in time Mr. Loft will grow to be really human,” Leslie was saying to his mates, when he spied the cultured librarian in a seat not far away. “He’s finding out that to know and understand boys he’s just got to mingle with them.”
“Mr. Holwell does that,” observed another boy, “and that is why all of us are ready to do anything he asks us. We know that he’s always thinking of helping a fellow who’s backward, or in trouble.”
“Here comes Harry Bartlett straight this way!” exclaimed Peg.
“Isn’t he one of the three committeemen who were appointed to judge the farces?” demanded a boy.