"Wandel," Allen went on, "will use you to hurt us—the poor men; and when he's had what he wants of you he'll send you back to the muck heap."
George shook his head, smiling.
"No, because you've said yourself that whatever power I have comes from football and not from an empty pocket-book."
"Use all the power you have," Allen urged. "Come in with us. Help the poor men, and we'll know how to reward you."
"You're already thinking of Sophomore elections?" George asked. "I don't care particularly for office."
Allen's face reddened with anger.
"I'm thinking of the clubs first. What I said when I came in is true. The selfish men intriguing for Prospect Street don't dare be friendly with the poor men; afraid it might hurt their chances to be seen with a poler. By God, that's vicious! It denies us the companionship we've come to college to find. We want all the help we can get here. The clubs are a hideous hindrance. Promise me you'll keep away from the clubs."
George laughed.
"I haven't made up my mind about the clubs," he said. "They have bad features, but there's good in them. The club Goodhue joins will be the best club of our time in college. Suppose you knew you could get an election to that; would you turn it down?"
The angular face became momentarily distorted.