"I did ask them!" he hoarsely whispered—"and they refused! Not one of them but would have considered it a high honor to have me ask them a month ago! And I have come to this!"
His words were incoherent, but his face told the story of his wounded pride. He remembered how many times he had been welcomed with a shout in that little room where the famous tables hung upon the wall. He remembered how his admirers had gathered about him, eager to listen to every word he might speak, and roar with laughter at his stories and jests. He remembered the songs, the speeches, all the jolly times in that room.
Little had he dreamed the time would come when the very ones he had counted as his warm friends would refuse to drink with him there and turn their backs on him in disdain.
Nothing could have hurt him more than that. His pride was cut to the core, and his spirit was shaken as it had never been before.
His first thought was that he would find a way to get even with them all. Then he realized how great a task that would be. He saw himself scorned and ostracized by the whole college, and, for a fleeting moment, he thought of leaving New Haven forever that very night.
His brain began to whirl. The waiter was standing there, looking at him in a manner that seemed rather insolent.
"What do you want?" he snapped.
"I beg your pardon," returned the waiter; "what do you want?"
"Whiskey!" cried Frank Merriwell—"bring me whiskey, waiter, and bring it quick!"