“You mustn’t charge it up to the Omegs, Larry; that’s one of the things I got you out here to say to you. I know some of the fellows in my frat are pretty swift, but I was the only one that was in the ‘Mixers.’ It’s only fair to say that Carey Lansing and some of the others have done all they could to hold me down and keep me from getting tangled up with fellows of the Underhill sort. But it didn’t do any good. I was just an easy mark, all around the block.”
“I could have held you down,” Larry maintained, with his jaw set.
“Yes, I guess you could have. But I never gave you a chance to try.”
Larry sat quietly for a few minutes, kicking his heels against the concrete wall. This was the time of day when, ordinarily, nothing would have kept him from thinking of his supper. But now he was not remembering that there were any such things as suppers.
“What will you do after you get home, Dick?” he asked, more to be saying something than for any cogent purpose behind the words.
“I don’t know; get Dad to give me a clerkship or something on the railroad, so that I can earn money enough to pay my debts. I’ve had my fling and I’m out of it for the rest of my life.”
If you are a little older than Dick you may smile at this, if you like, but it was the end of the world for him, or he thought it was—which amounts to the same thing.
“Does that mean that the fight’s all out of you?” Larry asked.
“Golly, I’d fight if I didn’t have just sense enough left to know that I’m down and out. I’ve taken the count, all right.”