What if, after all, his ideas about the rich and poor distinctions were all wrong? It certainly looked that way when the exclusive Omegs were intending to give him a bid. So his protest, when he made it, was really no protest at all.
“If they should take me in, it would be entirely on your account, Dick; and I couldn’t stand for that.”
“Not by a thousand parasangs! Those things go by secret ballot; Carey Lansing explained all that. I had nothing to do with it—couldn’t have, because I’m only a ‘pledge’ myself.”
“Well, then, there’s the money. I’m a lot too poor to hold up my end with that bunch.”
Dick sat down and squared himself aggressively.
“Now, see here; let’s fight that out, once for all,” he argued. “Before we left home, my father, acting for the railroad company, offered to pay your way through college as a sort of prize for the good work you did last summer on the Little Ophir Extension. A week ago you told me you were sore at all the rich people, and were going to fling the money back in their faces and earn your own way.
“I hope you’ve thought better of that by this time; and if you have, I’ve only this to say: Dad expects you to have all the advantages here that I shall have; he told me so. He—or the company—will pay your frat dues just as cheerfully as they will your tuition and board bills—you know they will.”
Truly, Larry did know it; hence the knees of his continued protest grew weaker still.
“It’s kind of an honor, I guess,” he admitted soberly. “Yet I can’t change over all at once. I’m slow; slower than Christmas, Dick. You know that. I’ll have to have time to think it out.”