"I suppose you'll give us malted milk and crackers," sneered Dutton, as he turned aside. "I don't think that will suit us. Eh, Stiver?"
"No indeed. I thought you wanted to be a sport, Hamilton?"
"I don't care about breaking rules," replied Dick. "Besides, I don't use tobacco or liquor."
"Ah, he's a regular Sunday school brand of millionaire," remarked Dutton, with a mean laugh. "He gives his money to the heathen, instead of buying cigars. Come on, Stiver."
At Dick's spread, that night, only a few freshmen came, and, though they tried to be jolly, the affair was a dismal failure, after the elaborate preparations that had been made. None of Dutton's friends came, and not a member of the sporting element.
"Dutton told 'em to stay away," said Paul, as he and Dick went to their room, after it was all over.
"I suppose so," answered Dick gloomily, and there was a heavy feeling in his heart, that the thought of all his wealth could not lighten.
He was beginning to realize what it meant to fulfill the conditions of his mother's will.