"Not a bit. I hate to go alone; that's all."
He turned smilingly into the dormitory and Roy went on upstairs, got rid of his books and scrambled into his red sweater. It wasn't necessary to pass School Hall on the way down to the river, and Roy was glad of it. He felt that in losing his temper and slanging the older fellows on the steps he had also lost ground. Instead of making friends he had possibly made one or two new enemies. Then the realization that the boy beside him was showing himself more of a friend than any other fellow in school, with the possible exception of Jack Rogers, brought comfort, and, in a sudden flush of gratitude, he turned and blurted:
"It was mighty nice of you to take my part and I'm awfully much obliged."
"Shucks, that wasn't anything! I'm always for the under dog, anyhow—if you don't mind being called a dog."
"No," answered Roy. Then he added a trifle bitterly, "I guess some of them call me worse than that."
"Oh, they'll get over it," was the cheerful reply. "Just you pay no attention to 'em, mind your own affairs and look as though you didn't give a rap."
"That's what Laurence said," replied Roy thoughtfully.
"Sensible chap, Laurence," said the other smilingly. "Who might he be?"
"My brother. He's in Harvard."
"Oh, yes, I remember some one said your brother was 'Larry' Porter, the Harvard football man. I guess that's how you happen to put up such a dandy game yourself, eh?"