"Smith," he said, condescendingly, "you've got certain qualities, I'll admit, but what you need is a manager!" "Why, what are you thinking of?" said Smith, who began to have a suspicion of Hickey's plan. "I suppose you would expose your honourable scars," said Hickey, disdainfully, "to any one who asks to see them?" "Why not?" "Just out of friendliness?" "Yes." "Smith, you _are_ a nincompoop! Why, my boy, there's money in it--big money. Never thought of that, eh?" "How so?" "Exhibitions--paid exhibitions, my boy! We'll organise the greatest side-show ever known." Smith blushed at the thought. "Won't it be rather undignified?" he said doubtfully. "Dignity, rats!" said Hickey. "Talk to me of dignity when you hear the gold rattling in your pocket, when you lodge in a marble palace and drive fast horses up Fifth Avenue. My boy, you don't known what you're worth. I'll have Macnooder paper the campus to-morrow. I'll get up scareheads that'll bring every mother's son of them scampering here to see you." "What do I get out of it?" said Smith cautiously. "Half!" "You low-down robber!" "Who had the idea? Would you ever have made a cent if it hadn't been for me? Do you suppose any attraction ever makes as much as his manager? My boy, I'm generous! I oughtn't to do it! Come now--is it a go?" "Well--yes!" "Wait--till you see the posters," said Hickey, squeezing his hand joyfully, "and mind, no private exhibitions. Promise?" "I promise." "Under oath?" "So help me." "Ta, ta." Left at last alone, George Barker Smith could hardly seize the full measure of his future. Hickey was right, it was the biggest thing that had ever happened. In one short hour everything had changed. Now he was of the elect--a part of history, a tale to be told over whenever one old graduate would meet another. Even Hungry Smeed's great pancake record would have to be placed second to this. Other more distinguished appetites might come who would achieve fifty pancakes, but no boy would ever go the path he had gone. He was famous at last. At Prom and Commencement he would be pointed out to visitors in the company of Hickey, Flash Condit, Cap Kiefer and Turkey Reiter. Only yesterday he was plain George Barker Smith, to-morrow he might be.... What would the morrow bring? Who would name him? Would it be Hickey, Macnooder or Turkey or the Egghead, or would some unsuspected classmate find the happy expression? He hoped that it would be something picturesque, but a little more dignified than the Triumphant Egghead. He tried to imagine what the nickname would be. Of course, there were certain obvious appellations that immediately suggested themselves, such as Roofie, Jumper, or, better still, Plunger Smith. There was also Tattoo and Rubber and Sliding, but somehow none of these seemed to measure up to the achievement, and in this delightful perplexity Smith fell asleep. OLD IRONSIDES