“Too late nothing! It’s almost two weeks to the Duals. Why don’t you speak to Collins?”
“Well—perhaps—” murmured Gerald. Then, “I’m awfully sorry, Arthur,” he said. Arthur nodded.
“Thanks. Well, I must be off. See you this evening maybe.”
He didn’t come across Harry Merrow until school was over in the afternoon. Then, as he didn’t care to go down to the field and have the fellows commiserate with him, he went over to his room. Harry was there, sitting at the table with a book in front of him, looking very miserable and frightened. Arthur paid no attention to him. He tossed his cap aside, got his writing materials and sat down to compose a letter home. From time to time Harry stole inquiring glances at him across the table, but Arthur never once looked up. After a half-hour the younger boy could stand it no longer.
“Aren’t you—going to say anything?” he faltered.
Arthur looked up and across coldly.
“About what?” he asked.
“About—what I did,” answered Harry.
Arthur shook his head. “What’s the use?” he asked, contemptuously. “It’s done. And I guess you won, Harry. Oh, by the way.” He arose, unlocked the closet door and pulled the stamp albums from the shelf. He tossed them down at Harry’s elbow. “There are your books,” he said.
Harry swept them to the floor and buried his face in his arms, bursting into a storm of sobs.