"Next contestant," said Dink, in sing-song, "is the champion of the Rouse, Mr. Peanuts Biddle."
But here a difficulty arose.
"Please, sir," said the candidate, who as a freshman was visibly embarrassed at the ordeal before him—"Please, sir, I don't part my hair."
Every eye went to the pompadour, cropped like a scrubbing brush, and recognized the truth of this assertion.
"Please, sir, I don't see why I should have to touch a comb."
A protest broke forth from the other candidates.
"Rats!"
"Penalize him!"
"Why part my hair?"
"I always do that with my fingers when I'm skating down the stairs."