"Hold up, Benny," said Le Baron, who had lit his cigarette, "it's not necessary to talk that way. Let me explain."
"No, put it to me straight," said Stover, looking past Le Baron straight into Reynolds's eyes. An instinctive antagonism was in him, the revolt of the man of action, the leader in athletics, at being criticized by the man of the pen.
"Stover, we don't like what you've been doing lately."
"Why not?"
"You're shaking your own crowd, and you're identifying yourself with a crowd that doesn't count. What the deuce has got into you?"
"Just shut up for a moment, Benny," said Le Baron, giving him a look, "you're not putting the thing in the right way."
"I'm not jumping on any one," said Reynolds. "I'm giving him good advice."
Stover looked at him without speaking, then he turned to Le Baron.
"Well?"
"Look here, Dink," said Le Baron conciliatingly. "A lot of us fellows have spoken to you, but you didn't seem to understand. Now, what I'm saying is because I like you, and because you are making a mistake. We're interested personally, and for the society's sake, in seeing you make out of yourself what you ought to be, one of the big men of the class. Dink, what's happened? Have you lost your nerve about anything—anything wrong?"