“Certainly,” I said, jumping from my perch and measuring my stride to his.
“Priddy,” he said, “you know about the Bristow Oratorical Prize for seniors?”
“Yes.”
“The trials come off soon. Why don’t you go into it?”
“I hadn’t thought of it,” I admitted. “Besides, I don’t think it would be wise. I am no orator; I mean that I do not use finished gestures, and my throat trouble has taken the spirit from my voice. In addition to that, Ellis, when one is used to the pulpit, it is really a different proposition to speak in an exhibition.”
“But you will have a chance with the literary side. That counts one half,” persisted Ellis.
“Now look here,” I smiled, turning on him, suddenly, “why don’t you go into it?”
“I will, Priddy. I certainly will!”
“You’ve made your record in football, and you ought to go into this oratorical contest, Ellis.”
“I’m going into it,” he replied, “not so much for the mere idea of trying for the prize, but for a purpose.”