“Well, what has all that got to do with me?” asked Ken. He felt curiously light-headed.
“It has a little to do with you—hasn't it, fellows?” said Dale, in slow, tantalizing voice.
Worry Arthurs lost his worried look and began to smile and rub his hands.
“Ward, look here,” added Dale, now speaking sharply. “You've been picked for the bowl-man!”
“Me—me?” stammered Ken.
“No other. The freshmen were late in choosing a man this year. To-day, after your stunt—holding up that bunch of sophomores—they had a meeting in Carlton Club and picked you. Most of them didn't even know your name. I'll bet the whole freshman class is hunting for you right now.”
“What for?” queried Ken, weakly.
“Why, I told you. The bowl-fight is only a week off—and here you are. And here you'll stay until that date's past!”
Ken drew a quick breath. He began to comprehend. The sudden huzzahs of Dale's companions gave him further enlightenment.
“But, Captain Dale,” he said, breathlessly, “if it's so—if my class has picked me—I can't throw them down. I don't know a soul in my class. I haven't a friend. But I won't throw them down—not to be forever free of dodging Sophs—not even to square myself with you.”