“I guess you won’t have to stay at home on that account,” murmured Chub.
“I think you’re horrid,” said Harry. “You’re making fun of it all the time. If you don’t think it can be done, I don’t see why you don’t leave the Society.”
“Because,” laughed Chub, “I never belonged to a society before, and I like it immensely. I don’t say we won’t succeed, but I don’t believe we’ll ever get the money by writing some letters to the graduates; that is, not by just that alone.”
“What’s your idea?” asked Dick eagerly.
“I think we ought to get some one to give a big sum, say five or ten thousand, as a starter. Then we could find out which of the old boys are well off, and put it up to them; tell them So-and-So had given ten thousand dollars and ask them to go and do likewise. Of course, every grad ought to be allowed the privilege of contributing to the worthy cause, but there’s no use expecting to get much that way. And when the letters or circulars are sent out, a subscription blank ought to go along.”
“That’s a good scheme,” said Dick thoughtfully. “How can we find out who the wealthy grads are?”
“I dare say the Doctor knows,” said Chub. “Anyhow, we can ask him.”
“Yes, and don’t you think his name ought to go on the letter? Wouldn’t it look more—more official?”
“I guess it would,” answered Chub. “I believe we ought to elect him honorary something; isn’t that what’s usually done?”
“Honorary President,” suggested Dick.