"No."
"Instead of that, he has lived rather simply—far more so than most fellows would if they could afford anything better. He has made friends with everybody who appeared to be white, no matter whether their parents possessed boodle or were poor."
"That is one secret of Merriwell's popularity. He hasn't shown signs of thinking himself too good to be living."
"Yet I have it straight that he has a fortune in his own right, and he may live as swell as he likes while he is here. What do you think of that?"
"It may be true," admitted Pierson. "He is an original sort of chap—"
"But they say there isn't anything small or mean about him," put in Collingwood, swiftly. "He isn't living cheap for economy's sake. You know he doesn't drink."
"Yes. I have made inquiries about his habits."
"Still they say he opens wine for his friends now and then, drinking ginger ale, or something of that sort, while they are surrounding fizz, for which he settles. And he is liberal in other ways."
"He is an enigma in some ways."
"I have heard a wild sort of story about him, but I don't take much stock in it. It is the invention of some fertile brain."