“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Hardie, warily. “Don’t they like you?”
“No, they don’t. You know they don’t. Now, what is it?”
Roger looked shyly across the table at the questioner; he didn’t know what to answer.
“Spit it out!” insisted Dunn. “Just give me the truth. I can stand it.”
“Well,” said Roger, slowly, “for one thing, you talk too much.”
Dunn stared. “I don’t think that’s such a crime. I’m nothing compared with Wilmot. His tongue’s going all the time.”
“Oh, he’s different,” exclaimed Roger, hastily. “He talks a lot of trash, but he’s amusing, and the fellows like it. He never talks about himself.”
“And my talk isn’t amusing and is always about myself.”
“Not that exactly, but you’re always thinking about yourself. You don’t take much interest in anybody else.”
“It isn’t easy to do it if they won’t let you,” said Dunn, with a gloomy smile. “What else?”