every one to vote for Harry Harding. Has n't Watson or some one tried it on you?"
The blood rushed to Stoddard's face. So that was why his old friend had walked with him so affectionately the day before—merely to make use of him.
"I did n't know about it," he said.
"Well, it's so. If you can do anything to help Rupert's chances, you'd better."
Do anything! Stoddard wished he could. But no one knew better than himself that he had no influence in the school. He had never done anything to compel respect other than that half-contemptuous kind which boys have for a capacity to get good marks and avoid bad ones. If he undertook to do any electioneering for Rupert he knew he would be regarded as a busybody, and those to whom he made his appeal would be more likely than not to think he was hurting his candidate's chances.
But he was indignant over what he regarded as a conspiracy against Rupert, indignant and grieved at Bruce Watson's duplicity. And
