“I think the best way would be,” said Freckleton, “for every fellow to make a list of the thirty fellows he thinks most eligible, between now and to-day week. If he can’t think of thirty, then let him put down all he can, remembering that there are not to be more than six in any form. To-day week we’ll have the ballot, and fellows will drop their lists into the box, and the highest thirty will be elected.”
“Hadn’t we better have a list posted up somewhere of the names of fellows in each form who are eligible?” asked someone.
“Certainly. I’ll have one up to-morrow, and if there are any corrections and additions to make, there will be time to make them, and get out a final list two days before the election.”
Among the crowd which jostled in front of the list on the library door, next day, might have been seen the eager and disconsolate faces of our three heroes.
Alas! not one of their names was there! Everybody else’s seemed to be there but their’s. Aspinall’s was there, of course, for Aspinall had won his remove with honour last term. Raggles was there, for Raggles had played in the junior tennis fours of Westover’s against the rival houses. Spokes was there, for Spokes had swum round the Black Buoy, and become a “shark.” Even Gosse was there, for Gosse had “walked over” for the high jumps for boys under 4 foot, 6 inches, last sports.
Dick gulped down something like a groan, as he strained his eyes up and down the cruel list, in the vague hope of finding his name in some corner, however humble.
But no. He turned away at last, with his two disconsolate friends, feeling more humiliated than he had ever felt in his life.
He had done nothing for Templeton—he, who had passed for a leader among his compeers, and for a hero among his inferiors!
His record was absolutely empty. In school he had failed miserably; out of school he had shirked sports in which he ought easily to have excelled and “rotted” when he might have been doing good execution for Templeton. He scoured his memory to think of anything that might savour of credit. There was the New Boys’ Race. He had won that, but that was all, and it didn’t count. He had thrashed Culver and been patted on the back for it, but that hadn’t got him on to the list.
And, except for these two exploits, what good had he done? Nay, hadn’t he done harm instead of good? He had dragged Heathcote after him, and Heathcote and he had dragged Coote; and here they were all left out in the cold.