“Ever been in Yellowstone Park, Larry?” Havercamp asked, one night in May when Larry had stayed over in town to help put the paper to bed.
“Not yet,” said Larry. “Why?”
“You remind me of one of the geysers—Old Faithful. Goes off at regular intervals and never misses a lick. That’s what counts in the long run—even more than the brilliant intellect you read about—and don’t often see. You can’t write much yet, but you have the knack of being able to tell when the other fellow writes right. Do you get me?”
“I guess so,” Larry laughed. “You’re trying to feed me up a bit, aren’t you?”
“Something of the sort, yes. In a few weeks we’ll be electing the editorial staff of the ‘Mike’ for next year. Some of the fellows think you ought to run for athletic editor. The ‘Mike’s’ going to need a ‘steady’ or so next year, and you’d fill the bill.”
“Not good enough,” Larry objected decisively.
“That’s for the other fellows to say. I think you are.”
“You ought to have a frat man,” was Larry’s next objection. “The fraternities have taken a good deal of interest in athletics this year and they ought to be encouraged.”
Havercamp grinned. He was one of the most enthusiastic fraternity men in Sheddon, and it amused him hugely to have a barbarian pointing out that the fraternities ought to be “encouraged.”