“Look here, the Hilltonian comes out in less than a week; what’s the matter with getting Singer to write a ripping editorial about the necessity for more candidates, and—and ‘asking the support of the entire student body,’ and all that sort of stuff? Maybe there’s still time; I’m blamed if I know when the paper goes to press.”
“That’s a good idea, Bob,” answered Dick. “And I’ll see Singer this evening. And meanwhile you fellows do what you can; you ought to be able to drum up lots of fellows, Taylor; you know plenty of them, and what you say has weight.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can, Hope, of course, but there doesn’t seem to be the usual interest in rowing this year.”
“I know; we’ve got to awaken interest. I’ll see you the last of the week and we’ll have another council of war. Going back to the room, Nesbitt?”
On their way across the Yard, which between the walks was a waste of heavily crusted snow upon which the afternoon sunlight flashed dazzlingly, the two boys were silent—Dick with the little creases in his forehead very deep, and Trevor kicking at the ice in a manner which suggested annoyance. When the dormitory was reached Trevor stopped and let go savagely at a small cake of ice, which, as it was securely frozen to the granite step, only resulted in an unpleasant jar to his foot. But the jar seemed to loosen his tongue, for he turned quickly to Dick as they passed into the building, and asked explosively:
“Is that chap Taylor all right?”
“Why? Have you heard anything?” asked Dick.
“No; only—only he looks as though he didn’t much like you, Hope; and then he talks so sick!”
“Sick?”