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 throat gone dry. "I'm a candidate," he said. He meant it to be casual and matter-of-fact. It sounded defiant.

Praska made a noise with his lips. It might have been a subdued whistle of surprise. He kept staring down the corridor, now and then stepping out of the way of hurrying students with a sort of absent-mindedness.

"It's about time to report," he said at last.

Perry caught his arm. "I can count on you, can't I?"

"I—I don't know," the football guard said slowly and uncomfortably. "You're such a queer eel. You might take it into your head that managing the team was some sort of comedy. We've got to do what's best for the team, and you may not be the best. And then there's Room 13. If the manager comes from our room he'll give the room a black eye if he doesn't stand right up to his job. It's like electing somebody to public office just because he's a good fellow. Mr. Banning says that when you do that you usually get a good fellow who isn't up to being a good official."

Perry dropped his arm. "I thought you were a friend of mine," he said bitterly.

"I am." Praska was genuinely distressed. "If you didn't do so many fool things— I've got to