“Forgive me, Emery, old man!” he cried, his voice quivering with shame and regret. “I didn’t know I was going to do it—honest, I didn’t! I did it before I thought! I’m half crazy, anyway! You know I wouldn’t do such a thing purposely! Let me help you up!”
“Get out!” said Emery, sharply. “I can get up myself. You are not to be trusted! It must be you have been drinking!”
“Not a drop. But I think I am dind of kaffy—I mean, kind of daffy! If I hadn’t been——Say, old man, hit me! I’ll take it all right. Soak me a good one! Knock me down!”
Emery was on his feet, and Harry was begging to be struck in turn. Andy looked at him in amazement, and then turned away, gently rubbing the spot where Rattleton’s knuckles had struck.
“You are daffy!” Emery flung over his shoulder. “You ought to be in an asylum.”
Harry stood still and stared after Emery till he was gone. Then an almost irresistible desire to shed tears assailed the excited fellow, who was completely unstrung.
He hurried to his room and locked himself in, feeling that he never wanted to see anybody again.
Deep down in his heart Harry Rattleton was one of the truest of Frank Merriwell’s friends. His affection for Frank was of the most intense nature, and, being somewhat excitable, he had become hysterical over the misfortune he believed had befallen Merry. He would have done anything to keep Frank from walking into the trap. He was proud of Frank’s record at Yale, and he felt sure this meant the ruin of the proud reputation Merry had won.
Harry got hungry after a time. He began to realize it, and he became aware of the fact that he had not eaten dinner. Then he decided to go out to a restaurant somewhere and have something all alone by himself. He would be alone in his misery.
He was slinking along the streets like a whipped dog when somebody blocked his path, and a voice cried: