“What the devil has happened to you, Lynch?” he asked. “I swear I can’t comprehend it. I agree with Wolfe that you’re bughouse. You’d better hold up right where you are. You’d better not try to get in with the Merriwell crowd. If you do, you’ll find yourself in trouble.”
“Wait a minute, Duncan,” urged Mike quietly. “You’ve called yourself my friend, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but——”
“But now you threaten to quit me. Have you forgotten what I did for you Saturday? Have you forgotten how I saved you from the grip of Shylock Dagett? I am still your friend, Ditson. You may need me again. Wolfe may need me. If either of you need assistance, don’t hesitate to come to me. I’ll do what I can for you. But I can’t listen to your talk now. I’ve got a headache. I wish you would both get out.”
Ditson sprang up.
“I’ll go,” he snapped. “By Jove! I don’t know what the class of Umpty-ten is coming to. Every man in it will be prostrating himself at Merriwell’s feet if this thing keeps up. It’s simply disgusting.”
“That’s what it is!” cried Wolfe, as he followed Ditson from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Mike returned to his chair and sat down with a weary expression, resting his head on his hand.
“I think I’d better go, too,” murmured Du Boise.
“Wait a minute,” said Lynch. “Were you ever troubled with headaches, Hal?”