Bart shook his head.
“Can’t do it—I can’t. You don’t know—I can’t explain—now.”
“Do you think this is using me just right?” asked Frank, reproachfully. “You’ll find us a jolly crowd, and we’ll have dead loads of sport. We’ve made a quick run across, and we can take our time going back. None of the fellows are obliged to hurry home. Come along with us, Bart, and we’ll do you good.”
Something like a smile flitted over Hodge’s serious face.
“You are the same old Merriwell,” he said. “It has done me good to see you a little while, Frank.”
“It will do you more good to see me longer, and it’ll do me good to have you come with me. Come along.”
Bart wavered. It was plain enough that he longed to go, but, for some reason, he hesitated.
Frank passed an arm about Hodge’s shoulders, saying, gently but firmly:
“You’ve got to do it; you can’t get out of it, old chum.”
A wave of feeling fled across Hodge’s face, and there was something like a suspicious quiver of his sensitive chin.