“First to the ice, and then,” looking up archly, “where we have no stupid books, but plenty of fun and frolic. Why not go? What if you do fail in the next lesson? Some of the boys fail every day.”
“You will never be thought less of,” said Richard Farden. “I do not look at my translation till I go in to recite. It comes to me just as I want to say it.”
“It does not come to me without study,” I answered.
“That is because your brains are so knotted up poring over it all the while,” persisted Harry. “Clear them out occasionally with a good jolly spree, and you’ll be all right. Come along.”
“What will Mr. Harlan say?”
“Mr. Harlan will never know. He thinks we are all in bed by ten o’clock.”
“And so we are,” said Richard; “they don’t seem to think we can get up again.”
“Do what you do well”—I seemed to hear Mr. Kirby’s voice urging me to do right, while Jennie’s sweetly pleading eyes looked reproachingly.
“No, I will not go,” I said determinedly. “I came here to study, and I will do it. You know your parents could not approve of your course; you know Mr. Harlan would not; you know your own conscience does not. I will not go with you, and I advise you to stay at home yourself.”
“Lovell all over; isn’t it, Harry?” and my room-mate examined his skates carefully.