“Honest?” he broke in, his pale face getting a dull red, and seizing Jasper by the shoulders.
“Did I ever tell you anything that wasn't so, Pick?”
“No; but I can't believe it, Jap. It's the first time in my life I've—I've—” And what incessant blame could not do, praise achieved. Pickering rushed to the bed, flung himself face down upon it, and broke into a torrent of sobs.
Jasper, who had never seen Pickering cry, had wild thoughts of rushing for Mrs. Cabot; the uncle was not at home. But remembering how little good this could possibly do, he bent all his energies to stop this unlooked-for flood.
But he was helpless. Having never given way in this manner before, Pickering seemed determined to make a thorough job of it. And it was not till he was quite exhausted that he rolled over, wiped his eyes, and looked at Jasper.
“I'm through,” he announced.
“I should think you might well be,” retorted Jasper; “what with scaring me almost to death, you've made yourself a fright, Pick, and you've just upset all your chances to study to-day.”
Pickering flung himself off the bed as summarily as he had gone on.
“That's likely, isn't it?” he cried mockingly, and shamefacedly scrabbling up the books from the floor. “Now, then,” and he was across the room, pouring out a basinful of water, to thrust his swollen face within it.
“Whew! I never knew it used a chap up so to cry,” he spluttered. “Goodness me!” He withdrew his countenance from the towel to regard Jasper.