"I don't mean to fool them," Paul retorted. "I'm in dead earnest. I mean to get out a good school paper that shall be worth the money people pay for it. There shall be no fake about it. To-morrow I shall call a class meeting and we'll elect an editorial staff—editor-in-chief, publicity committee, board of managers, and all the proper dignitaries. Then we'll get right down to work."
Melville regarded his friend with undisguised admiration.
"You'll make it a go, Kip!" he cried. "I feel it in my bones now. Hurrah for the March Hare! I can hear the shekels chinking into our pockets this minute. Put me down for the first subscription. I'll break the ginger-ale bottle over the treasury."
"Shall it be a dollar, a dollar and a quarter, or an out and out one-fifty?"
"Oh, put it at one-fifty. We're all millionaires and we may as well go in big while we're at it. What is one-fifty for such a ream of wisdom as we're going to get for our money?"
Melville vaulted into his bicycle saddle.
"Well, I'm off, Kipper," he called over his shoulder. "Got to do some errands for the Mater. So long!"
"I can depend on you, Cart?"
"Sure you can. I'll shout for your March Hare with all my lungs. I'm quite keen about it already."
Paul watched him speed through the gathering shadows and disappear round the turn in the road. Then, straightening his shoulders with resolution, he went into the house to seek his pillow and dream dreams of the March Hare.