“I know. He’s a queer one.”
“How is he queer?”
“He’s pious.”
“He’s what?”
“Pious,” repeated Richardson, twisting his mouth. “A saint; a cant; a sneak.”
“Good gracious!” cried Bill Whitney.
“You think I’m jesting! Ask Ford here. Tell it, Ford.”
“Oh, it’s true,” said Ford: “true that he goes in for piety. Last term there was a freshman here named Carstairs. He was young; rather soft; no experience, you know, and he began to go the pace. One night this Charley, his scout, fell on his knees, and besought him with tears not to go to the bad; to pull up in time and remember what the end must be; and—and so on.”
“What did Carstairs do?”