Lenning stared at Merriwell blankly.
“Don’t you believe that some traits are handed down to a fellow?” he asked.
“They may be handed down, but that’s no sign a fellow’s got to let them get a strangle hold on him,” Frank answered, with spirit. “Some fellows,” he added, “take all the credit if they make a show in the world; but, if they go wrong, they put all the blame onto some one else. You’re responsible for what you do, or don’t do. A fellow’s a pup if he can’t take all the responsibility for his own actions, or——”
Frank broke off with a laugh.
“Hang it!” he grunted, “I don’t know what license I’ve got to preach. What I’ve said is the truth, though, so we’ll let it pass and go on to something else.”
“I don’t want to go on to anything else,” said Lenning, “at least, not just yet. This is a mighty important matter, to me. I’ve got a yellow streak—in some things, I’m a plain coward—and I’ve sort of thought I came by it naturally. My father——” he paused. “I suppose,” he went on presently, a shamed look crossing his face, “that you’ve heard how my father was killed in Alaska, years ago, in a row?”
“I’ve heard something about it; but you don’t have to go into that, Lenning.”
“I want you to know,” said Lenning, almost savagely, “I want you to understand how that idea of Shoup’s has been taking a hold on me. My father was killed while—while he was trying to take another man’s bag of gold dust.”
“What has that got to do with you?” demanded Frank sharply.
“Don’t you think I come in for any of my father’s failings? Most people think that way.”