"I beg you won't speak of any friend of mine in those terms," said Eric, drawing up haughtily.
"I hope you don't call a bad little boy like Wildney, who'd be no credit to any one, your friend, Eric?"
"Yes I do, though. He's one of the pluckiest, finest, most promising fellows in the lower school."
"How I begin to hate that word plucky," said Montagu; "it's made the excuse here for everything that's wrong, base, and unmanly. It seems to me it's infinitely more 'plucky' just now to do your duty and not be ashamed of it."
"You've certainly required that kind of pluck to bear you up lately, Monty," said Owen, looking up from his books.
"Pluck!" said Montagu, scornfully; "you seem to me to think it consists in lowering yourself down to the level of that odious Brigson, and joining hand and glove with the dregs of the school."
"Dregs of the school! Upon my word, you're cool, to speak of any of my associates in that way," said Eric, now thoroughly angry.
"Associates!" retorted Montagu, hotly; "pretty associates! How do you expect anything good to go on, when fellows high in the school like you have such dealings with the refined honorable Brigson, and the exemplary intellectual Wildney?"
"You're a couple of confounded muffs," shouted Eric, banging the door, and flinging into his own study again without farther reply.
"Hav'n't you been a little hard on him, considering the row he's in?" asked Owen.