Finnegan, perceiving the ground was shaky, switched.
"I say, you want to get into the Kennedy next year; we've got the A No. 1 crowd there. I'm there, the Tennessee Shad, the Gutter Pup—he's the president of the Sporting Club, you know; prize-fights and all that sort of thing—and King Lentz and the Waladoo Bird, the finest guards Lawrenceville ever had. And say, you'n I and the Tennessee Shad could strike up a combine and get out a rip-snorting, muzzle-off, all-the-news, sporting-expert, battle-cry-of-freedom newspaper that would put the Lawrence out of biz. I say, you must get in the Kennedy."
"I'm not coming back."
"What!"
"I guess my par-ticular style of talent isn't suited around here."
"What's wrong?"
"Well, everything."
"I say, Dink, confide in me!"
Stover, at that moment, in his loneliness, would have confided in any one, especially the first human being who had given him a thrill of conscious pride.
"It's just this, youngster," he said, wondering how to begin: "they don't like me."