"Wonder what's up?" exclaimed Bronson.
"Don't know," returned his companion. "More stories about me, I suppose, judging from the way they all stop talking and stare when I come near."
With that super-sensitiveness, from which he was a sufferer, Fred had ascribed the actions of his schoolmates to the matter of his father's failure, and in no more forceful manner could he have shown his real character, than by his next remark.
"I say, Bronson," he began, a little catch in his voice, "I don't think it's a good plan for you to associate with me. I'm under a cloud, you know, and it may queer you with the others."
"Of course, if you don't like me, I won't," returned the new student, after a moment's silence.
"It isn't that," responded Fred hurriedly. "I do like you. But I was thinking of your own good—your success at Baxter, you know."
"If that's the only reason for your former remark, forget it," exclaimed Bronson emphatically. "I'd rather have your friendship than that of anyone else in school. You were the only one who treated me decently yesterday—and I don't forget such things."
"All right, Clothespin, if you feel that way. Goodness knows, I need friends at this time, badly."
Fred's suspicions, however, did his schoolmates injustice. In line with their plan of the previous night, Buttons and Sandow had sought Grace, Sallie and Dorothy, early in the morning, and, after explaining matters to them, had received their assurance of hearty coöperation in the endeavor to shield Fred from taunts about his father, and the various groups the sensitive boy had noticed were caused by the girls putting into immediate effect their promise.
The sight of Margie standing alone on the porch, however, made Fred forgetful of the others.