"I don't know. What does it matter, anyhow? I tell you I'm all through, and so there's no use chewing it over."
"Oh, all right. Nuff said." Tim walked to the window, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, and, after a minute's contemplation of the darkening prospect without, observed haltingly: "Look here, Don. If you hear things you don't like, don't get up on your ear, eh?"
"What sort of things?" demanded the other.
Tim hesitated a long moment before he took the plunge. Then: "Well, some of the fellows don't understand, Don. You can't altogether blame them, I suppose. I shut two or three of them up, but there's bound to be some talk, you know. Some fellows always manage to think of the meanest things possible. But what fellows like that say isn't worth bothering about. So just you sit snug, old man. They've already found that they can't say that sort of thing when I'm around."
"Thanks," said Don quietly. "What sort of things do you mean?"
"Oh, anything."
"You mean that they're calling me a quitter?"
"Well, some of them heard Robey get that off and they're repeating it like a lot of silly parrots. I called Holt down good and hard. Told him I'd punch his ugly face if he talked that way again."
"Don't bother," said Don listlessly. "I guess I do look like a quitter, all right."
"Piffle! And, hang it all, Robey had no business saying that, Don! He couldn't really believe it."