“You’re right about his starving himself, if that’s what you mean,” said Laughlin, dropping heavily upon the window-seat, which he always considered the safest resting place in the room.
“Would he take anything?” asked Ware.
Laughlin shook his head soberly. “I didn’t dare ask him. He says he has plenty to eat, but all he had to-night for supper was mush and milk, which he pretends to be very fond of.”
“That’s nourishing, isn’t it?” asked Poole.
“Of course it’s nourishing,” replied Laughlin, “but he can’t live on it entirely. He isn’t a pig or a chicken.”
“What are we going to do about it?” demanded Poole. “Must we leave him to his mush and milk?”
“To his mush and milk and me,” returned Laughlin, quietly. “There’s something back of all this that hasn’t come out yet. I don’t understand why he should be so short. He had some money at the beginning of the year, as I happen to know. Since then he’s had a scholarship payment, has done considerable tutoring, and apparently hasn’t spent anything. He ought to have money left.”
“Tutored Marchmont, didn’t he?” asked Poole.
“I believe so,” Laughlin replied.
“I wonder if he got his money,” remarked Ware.