“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, in a low tone, without looking up. “I can’t give anything.”
Roger Eliot showed surprise and disappointment, but he did not immediately give over the effort.
“Why, of course you’ll give something,” he declared, as if there could be no doubt on that point. “Every one does. Every one I’ve asked so far has; if you refuse, you’ll be the first. Of course, if you can’t afford to give much——”
“I can’t afford to give a cent,” interrupted Ben grimly, almost repellantly.
Roger slowly refolded the paper, looking the other over closely. He took note of the fellow’s well-worn clothes and poverty-touched appearance, and with dawning comprehension he began to understand the meaning of the flush on Ben’s cheeks. Instead of being offended, he found himself sorry for the new boy.
“Oh, all right!” he said, in a manner that surprised and relieved Stone. “You know your own business, and I’m sure you’d like to give something.”
These words, together with Eliot’s almost friendly way, broke down the barrier of resentment which had risen unbidden in the heart of the stocky lad, who suddenly exclaimed:
“Indeed I would! I’m powerful sorry I can’t. Perhaps—by an’ by—if I find I’m going to get through all right—perhaps I’ll be able to give something. I will if I can, I promise you that.”
“Well, now, that’s the right stuff,” nodded Roger heartily. “I like that. Perhaps you can help us out in another way. You’re built for a good line man, and we may be able to make use of you. All the candidates are coming out to-day. Do you play?”
“I have—a little,” answered Ben; “but that was some time ago. I don’t know much about the game, and I don’t believe I’d be any good now. I’m all out of practice.”