Cowan looked for an instant as though he didn’t quite appreciate the latter remark, but summoned a smile as he shook hands with Neil and complimented him on his playing in Hillton’s last game with St. Eustace.  Neil replied with extraordinary politeness.  He was always extraordinarily polite to persons he didn’t fancy, and his dislike of Cowan was instant and hearty.  Cowan looked to be fully twenty-three years old, and owned to being twenty-one.  He was fully six feet two, and apparently weighed about two hundred pounds.  His face was rather handsome in a coarse, heavy-featured style, and his hands, as Neil observed, were not quite clean.  Later, Neil discovered that they never were.

After listening politely for some moments to Cowan’s tales of former football triumphs and defeats, in all of which the narrator played, according to his words, a prominent part, Neil broke into the stream of his eloquence and told Paul of his meeting with Foster, and of their talk regarding the freshman presidency.

“Well,” answered Paul, smiling at Cowan, “you’ll have to get out of that promise to Foster or whatever his name is, because we’ve got a plan better than that.  The fact is, Neil, I’m going to try for the presidency myself!”

“I suppose you’re fooling?” gasped Neil.

“Not a bit!  Why shouldn’t I have a fling at it?  Cowan here has promised to help; in fact, it was he that suggested it.  With his help and yours, and with the kind assistance of one or two fellows I know here, I dare say I can pull out on top.  Anyhow, there’s no harm in trying.”

“I think you’ll win,” said Cowan.  “This chump Livingston that Foster is booming is a regular milksop; does nothing but grind, so they say; came out of St. Mathias with all kinds of silly prizes and such.  What the fellows always want is a good, popular chap that goes in for athletics and that will make a name for himself.”

“Foster said Livingston was something of a dab at baseball,” said Neil.

“Baseball!” cried Cowan.  “What’s baseball?  Why not puss-in-the-corner?  A chap with a football reputation like Gale here can walk all round your baseball man.  We’ll carry it with a rush!  You’ll see!  Freshmen are like a lot of sheep—­show ’em the way and they’ll fall over themselves to get there.”

“Well, we’re freshmen ourselves, you know,” said Neil sweetly.  Cowan looked nonplussed for a moment.  Then—­

“Oh, but you fellows are different; you’ve got sense.  I was speaking of the general run of freshmen,” he explained.

“Thanks,” murmured Neil.  Paul scented danger.

“I’ll put the campaign in your hands and Cowan’s, Neil,” he said.  “You know several fellows here—­there’s Wallace and Knowles and Jones.  They’re not freshmen, but they can give you introductions.  Knowles is a St. Agnes man and there are lots of St. Agnes fellows in our class.”

“I think you’re making a mistake,” answered Neil soberly, “and I wish you’d give it up.  Livingston’s got lots of supporters, and he’s had his campaign under way for a week.  If you’re defeated I think it’ll hurt you; fellows don’t like defeated candidates when—­when they’re self-appointed candidates.”