They began saying: "See here, old man, you've got to quit this. You'll kill yourself if you keep on this way. The prize isn't worth it." But it did no good. Finally a number of them came up to his room one evening to see what they could do about it. They were headed by Lucky Lee.
"I wish you would let me alone," was all that Young would say. "I've simply got to win that prize."
"Why have you got to?" asked Lucky, in his nice, refined voice.
At that Young only smiled queerly, and turned to the table where his books were.
"See here, you old chump," said Lucky. "I believe you've got a notion—say, fellows, the Deacon's got a notion that just because he owes some of us a couple of dollars or so we are in a hurry to be paid back. If he thinks that, he's an old ass, isn't he, fellows?"
"Why, certainly," said Powelton.
"Thank you," said Young, curtly; "but as I said before, I intend to square up at commencement."
"Why, we can get along just as well till next fall," Lucky went on, although he had pawned some of his clothes as well as his bicycle last week. "In fact, if you're worrying about it, why—well—they were gambling debts, Will, and——"
"Lucky," said Young, flushing, "that's no way to talk. I'm an honest man and"——then he stopped suddenly; he was not an honest man, and this was the first time he had been called "Will" since he left home, and home was what he hated most of all to think of in these days, and this was Lucky Lee, who never would have had gambling debts, if it had not been for him, and whose kind mother he had promised—— Altogether he felt very queer and wrought up, and for a wild moment he had a notion to tell them all about it, and make a clean breast of it.
If he had done so they might have helped him out and sworn secrecy; but Young was not the sort that could do it. "Please go away, fellows, and leave me alone. You're mighty good, but—you don't understand," he said.