Roland Packard, a Yale “medic,” had within a short time made a reputation for himself as a heavy drinker. On entering college he had seemed no worse than scores of other students in this respect, but circumstances and his own disposition had led him into bad ways. This Defarge knew very well, and he had rightly fancied that the sight of that decanter and its contents would attract Roland.
Defarge drew another chair near the table on which sat the decanter. There were glasses on it also. The curtains of the window were closely drawn.
Bertrand studied the face of his visitor closely for a moment, and what he saw there seemed to trouble him a little, for he shrugged his shoulders with an unconscious gesture of dismay. He even hesitated about offering Packard any of the contents of the decanter. The latter seemed to understand that something was the matter, and he frowned blackly.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Spit it right out!”
“Oh, nothing—nothing at all!” assured Bertrand, with a quick gesture. “I happened to think—of him!”
“Why are you so confoundedly afraid to speak his name?”
“Because I do not wish to be overheard. You do not know everything that has happened, Packard.”
“So you are afraid of him? Well, I’m not! I’m not afraid of a whole regiment of Merriwells!”
“Sh! That is why I sent for you. You are about the only one left who has not surrendered to him.”
“That’s right!” grated Roland. “It used to be different. Now everybody is bowing down to him and worshiping him. If a man opens his mouth about Merriwell in a public place he has every one who hears him on his back in a moment. Yale has gone Merriwell mad, Defarge! Even the instructors and professors take off their hats to him! Think of that! Why, he’s a regular little tin god! Isn’t it enough to make anybody sick! Isn’t it enough to drive a man to drink!”