"Count the ballots," ordered Peter Barrett to the volunteer ushers who had collected the slips of paper from the pupils. It took nearly five minutes to total the various choices.
"The vote for manager," announced the chairman, "has resulted as follows: Meeker, 10; Leeton, 17; Sheffield, 80. Mr. Sheffield has been elected manager of the football team."
Puzzled and hurt, Bunny Payton crushed in his hand the note that Specs had just slipped over his right shoulder. What was the matter? Why had Nap been so badly beaten? Why? Opening his hand, he smoothed out the note and read in Specs' angular handwriting:
Bunny:
You will have to admit that we are not the only wideawake bunch in school. I have just seen Molly Sefton, and she says that all yesterday afternoon Buck and his gang were going around telling everybody that we Scouts had said we were going to boss this school. I don't know who is at the bottom of it; maybe Rodman the Athlete. (Specs had underlined these three words.) Anyhow, there are a lot of people just waiting for a chance to vote against a Boy Scout, whether he is any good or not.
—Specs.
Bunny set his teeth. He hoped Specs was mistaken. But if it should turn out to be true—
Professor Leland had left the room when Peter Barrett, rapping smartly on the desk, called for the election of a president of the athletic association.
A fellow named Bob Kiproy nominated Buck Claxton.
Specs hopped to his feet, plainly excited. "I nominate—"