And Marchmont never insisted that his friends should follow his practices. He was always self-possessed, always indolent, always enjoying the sense of his superiority, and, to those whom he favored, always extremely agreeable. There was no room in school which to Wolcott seemed as attractive as Marchmont’s. The hodge-podge of little pictures, photographs, emblems, signs, posters, German favors, pipes, mementos, athletic trophies, inharmonious furniture, staring carpets, which in various forms and degrees filled the rooms of other classmates, was not to be found here. Marchmont’s rugs were few but fine in quality—soft old Persians which he had brought from home. A big leather sofa stretched before the generous old-fashioned fireplace. The substantial bookcase was crowded with volumes, though hardly such as would help a schoolboy in his daily tasks. The cheap desk which his landlady furnished was glorified by a quaint set of writing tools bought at the Nijni-Novgorod fair. The scattered ornaments on the walls and mantel were unique and striking, picked up in odd corners of Europe and the West. Altogether this room and the easy hospitality with which it was opened to him were strong elements in the attraction which drew our hero to Marchmont. “You’ll stand pat with us on the election, won’t you?” said Marchmont, between pulls of his pipe. “We want to put an end to this flannel-shirt rule. Butler is just the man to be president of the class.” “I’ll help you all I can,” replied Lindsay. “I’ll vote right, of course; but I’m afraid I can’t do much else.” “Try Poole and Benson. They’re our worst enemies, because they really ought to be on our side. Benson’s got some grouch against Butler; and as for Poole, that man Melvin who was here last year spoiled him.” Lindsay’s eye fell on a copy of the _Literary Monthly_ lying on a table. “Oh, I read your poem on ‘The Unknown Ship at Sea’ in the last _Lit_,” he said with eager cordiality. “It’s fine!” “Much obliged,” returned Marchmont, apparently flattered. “I don’t think it’s much, myself, but they seemed to like it.” “It’s the best thing I’ve ever known them to have,” exclaimed Wolcott. “How did you get hold of the idea?” Marchmont, who appeared unexpectedly embarrassed by his friend’s praise, hesitated. “Oh, something that happened the last time we went over put it into my head. I jotted down some lines at the time, and the other day it occurred to me to fix them up and send them in.” “You had something in it last month, too,” continued Lindsay. “I guess you’ll make the board all right. I’ve sent in two things to the _Seatonian_, but they didn’t print either of them.” “I suppose there’s more competition for the _Seatonian_,” said the poet. Lindsay opened the door and turned for a last word.