The other looked up with a sudden start.
“Why, no; I——”
Marston shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
“Don’t tell me, if you don’t want to,” he drawled. “But if it’s something you want to keep to yourself, for goodness sake, wipe that scowl off your face and brace up.”
Stovebridge eyed the other with a speculative glance. Why not confide in Marston? He hated Merriwell and would certainly never peach. Besides, he might suggest something helpful.
“I’ll tell you about it, Fred,” he said in a low tone, as he drew his chair closer to his friend. “I’m in a deuce of a scrape. I—I—was the one—who ran over that kid this morning.”
His face flushed a little; his eyes were averted. He did not find it easy to tell, even to Fred Marston.
The latter gave a low whistle.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “You don’t say! How did it happen?”
“It was at the bend by the Hanlon farm,” Stovebridge explained. “I was hitting up a pretty good clip, and when I came round the bend she was standing in the middle of the road. There was plenty of time for her to get away, but she never moved. I tried to run to one side, but there wasn’t room, and—the kid went under.”