"Wiggin is the type of man," said Brockhurst, meditatively puffing his pipe, "that is the glorification of the commonplace. He is a sort of sublime earthworm, plodding along and claiming acquaintance with the rose because he travels around the roots. He is really by instinct a bricklayer, and the danger is that he may continue either in literature or some profession where the cry is for imagination." "You could have beaten him out," said Stover, as a solace. "And become an earthworm?" said Brockhurst. "The luck of it is, he made up his mind to heel the _Lit_. With his ideas he would have made leader of the glee club, president of the Phi Beta Kappa, chairman of the _News_, or what not." "Still, give him credit," said Stover, smiling to himself, for he felt that he saw for the first time the human side of Brockhurst. "I did; it was quite an amusing time." "What happened?" "Why, the little grubber came up to me and said, 'Brocky, old man, you ought to have had it.'" "Why, that was rather decent," said Stover. "Rubbish. All form," said Brockhurst impatiently. "Showed the calibre of his mind,--the obvious; nothing but the obvious. He thought it the thing to say, that's all." "Well, what did you answer?" said Stover wondering. "I said, 'Well, why didn't you vote for me then?'" Stover burst out laughing, and Brockhurst, who had lost a coveted honor, was a little mollified by the tribute. "Of course he stammered and looked annoyed--naturally; situation his imagination couldn't meet, so I said: "'Come, Wiggin, no stuff and nonsense. You didn't think I ought to have it, and I know damn well, now that you've won out, you'll get a Skull and Bones to wear, pose in the middle of the photograph for the Banner, and be thoroughly satisfied at our board meeting to sit back and listen while I do the talking.'" Stover broke into a laugh. "Brocky, you scandalized him." "Not at all. He thought I was joking--the last thing that occurs to the grubber is that wit is only a polite way of calling a man an ass." "Brocky, you're at your best, don't stop." Brockhurst smiled. It was turning a defeat into a victory. He continued: "After all, Wiggy is interesting. I'll be revenged. I'll put him in a book some day. He represents a type--the mathematical mind, quantity not quality. He set out for the chairmanship as a man trains for a long-distance run. Do you know the truth? He rose every morning and took a cold shower, fifty swings to the left with the dumb-bell, fifty to the right, ate nothing heavy or starchy for his meals, walked the same distance each afternoon, and worked his two hours each night, hammering out divine literature." "Oh, I say!" said Dink, a little in doubt. Brockhurst began to laugh.