"Hello," greeted the former. "How'd it go? Like old times, wasn't it?
Neil, I want you to meet Mr. Cowan. Cowan has quarters up-stairs here.
He's an old player, and we've been telling each other how good we are."

Cowan looked for an instant as though he didn't quite appreciate the
latter remark, but summoned a smile as he shook hands with Neil and
complimented him on his playing in Hillton's last game with St. Eustace.
Neil replied with extraordinary politeness. He was always
extraordinarily polite to persons he didn't fancy, and his dislike of
Cowan was instant and hearty. Cowan looked to be fully twenty-three
years old, and owned to being twenty-one. He was fully six feet two, and
apparently weighed about two hundred pounds. His face was rather
handsome in a coarse, heavy-featured style, and his hands, as Neil
observed, were not quite clean. Later, Neil discovered that they
never were.

After listening politely for some moments to Cowan's tales of former
football triumphs and defeats, in all of which the narrator played,
according to his words, a prominent part, Neil broke into the stream of
his eloquence and told Paul of his meeting with Foster, and of their
talk regarding the freshman presidency.

"Well," answered Paul, smiling at Cowan, "you'll have to get out of that
promise to Foster or whatever his name is, because we've got a plan
better than that. The fact is, Neil, I'm going to try for the
presidency myself!"

"I suppose you're fooling?" gasped Neil.