The two plebes whirled in surprise as Bob Randall stepped out. With an effort the latter had wiped the traces of discontent from his dark, good-looking features.
“You’re wrong,” he repeated easily. “I do think a good deal of Chip Merriwell, but since you seem to be discussing the subject frankly, I’ll say that he hasn’t any more chance of being elected captain than you have.”
The two plebes were inclined to be angry at being overheard by Randall, of all persons, and much more so by his words.
“Who gave you any license to butt in?” snapped Chester.
“I happened to overhear what you said, that’s all. This is a public place, isn’t it?”
“Generally considered so,” said Hunt Garding, with a grunt.
Randall saw that he had hurt himself with these two plebes, and he quickly tried to regain lost ground. He was not the kind to do any disguising of his true sentiments, however, and stated his ground bluntly.
“Look here, fellows, you seem to have the idea that I’m sore on Merriwell. I’m nothing of the kind. But there’s no use beating about the bush, after what’s been said, and I’m quite willing to admit that I want to be captain.”
“We guessed it,” retorted Chester dryly.
“Well, there’s no harm in that, is there?” Randall began to grow warm. “Can’t a fellow contest an elective office with Chip Merriwell?”