The more he thought over the matter, the more despondent he became. At length, as a last resort, he resolved to go to Dick with his troubles. He did not hope for any happy solution of the difficulty, but there is always a little comfort in talking over one’s miseries with somebody; and Bob knew that Dick would never say, “I told you so.”
Happily, the first recitation was scheduled for eleven o’clock, and Hollister found Dick alone in his rooms working over some math problems. He looked up smiling as the dismayed fellow entered.
“Hello, Bobby,” he greeted. “What’s the matter? You look as if life held no further joys for you.”
Without a word, Hollister thrust the dean’s letter into Merriwell’s hand. Dick read it through with knitted brows, and, having finished, folded it methodically and handed it back.
“Wouldn’t that kill you dead!” he exclaimed. “Sixty per cent.! Let’s see how we can dope that out.”
Hollister looked at him blankly.
“Dope it out!” he exclaimed. “What is there to dope out? I’m done!”
“Rot!” Dick returned emphatically. “You’re not going to give up without an effort, are you? We’ll get you through somehow. But you’ll have to buckle down and work like a terror.”
“I’ll work, all right,” Hollister returned, in a dispirited voice; “but I can’t make that average. Why, I’ve got to start in and make it this very day, man, and I haven’t the haziest notion of what the Latin lesson is, though I did grind some on chemistry last night.”
“Never know what you can do till you try, Bobby,” Dick said cheerily. “Why, we can’t let you be dropped, old fellow. Rather than that, I’ll turn tutor and drag you through by the hair of your head.”