“I know you don’t mean to stick a knife into me and twist it round, Donnie, but you know very well that I can’t afford to go to Mother Grant’s. Let it slide and help me out a bit on this trig.—if you can stand the cold. I’ve lost a week on the stuff, and if I can’t make it up I’ll go bust on it.”
“You chuck that book and listen to me,” growled Larry. “I say you’re going to room with me in the Man-o’-War, and what’s more, you’re going to begin it to-night—if I can find a night-owl auto hack anywhere this side of Chicago.”
“But I tell you I can’t, Donnie. It’s as much out of my reach as—as—”
“That’s all fixed,” Larry put in brusquely. “Your room rent’s paid, and your board, too; or they will be.”
“But listen, you good old scout; I can’t take charity that way—you know I can’t. It—it would break me, world without end!”
“It isn’t charity; it’s a—scholarship,” Larry stammered.
“Sheddon hasn’t any first-year scholarships, Donnie. You know that as well as I do.”
“Maybe it hasn’t had; but it’s got one now—just—er—founded. One of the fellows—er—knew of it so he nailed it for you.”
“Donnie, you’re lying to me; you know good and well you are,” protested the sick one. “You’re meaning to put up for me yourself—out of money that you told me yourself was borrowed money. Isn’t that the truth?”