“I!” exclaimed Polly in amazement. “Why, Jasper King!” and she tumbled back a few steps to stare at him. “What do you mean?”
“It's just this way.” Jasper threw back his hair from his hot forehead. “Pick doesn't care a bit for what I say: it's an old story; goes in at one ear, and out at the other.”
“Oh, he does care for what you say,” contradicted Polly stoutly, “ever and ever so much, Jasper.”
“Well, he's heard it so much; perhaps I've pounded at him too hard. And then again—” Jasper paused, turned away a bit, and rushed back hastily, with vexation written all over his face. “I must speak it: I can't help him any more, for somehow Mr. Faber has found it out, and forbids it; that's one reason of the talk this morning in his study—says I must influence him, and all that. That's rubbish; I can't influence him.” Jasper dashed over to lay his head on the table on his folded arms.
“Polly, if Pick is expelled, I—” he couldn't finish it, his voice breaking all up.
Polly ran over to lay a hand on his shaking shoulders.
“What can I do, Jasper?” she cried brokenly. “Tell me, and I'll do it, every single thing.”
“You must talk to him,” said Jasper, raising his head. It filled Polly with dismay to see his face. “Get him in here; I'll bring him over and then clear out of the den.”
“Oh Jasper!” exclaimed Polly, quite aghast. “I couldn't talk to Pickering Dodge. Why, he wouldn't listen to me.”
“Yes, he would,” declared Jasper eagerly; “he thinks everything of you, Polly, and if you'll say the word, it will do more good than anything else. Do, Polly,” he begged.