"Come, old chap!" he said. "Get a hold on yourself! What's it all about?"
Robin's shoulders heaved convulsively; his hold tightened. He murmured some inarticulate words.
Dick bent over him. "What, boy? What? I can't hear. You haven't been up to any mischief, have you? Robin, have you?" A sudden misgiving assailed him. "You haven't hurt anybody? Not Jack, for instance?"
"No," Robin said. But he added a moment later with a concentrated passion that sounded inexpressibly vindictive, "I hate him! I do hate him! I wish he was dead!"
"Why?" Dick said. "What has he been doing?"
But Robin burrowed lower and made no answer.
Dick sat for a space in silence, waiting for him to recover himself. He knew very well that he had good reason for his rooted dislike for Jack. It was useless to attempt any argument on that point. But when Robin had grown calmer, he returned to the charge very quietly but with determination.
"What has Jack been doing or saying? Tell me! I've got to know."
Robin stirred uneasily. "Don't want to tell you, Dicky," he said.
Dick's hand pressed a little upon him. "You must tell me," he said. "When did you meet him?"