“I suppose you wouldn’t care to swop a knife for this?”
Dick was proof against the temptation. He didn’t want a steel chain. But he wished Culver would be moved to transfer the dog’s-head to some one who wanted a knife. That, however, Culver did not do. He seemed, as indeed his experience in business justified him in being, a good judge of a good bargain; and stuck very faithfully to his new pin, in spite of a considerable number of offers.
After joining in a few songs the airs of which were somewhat vague, the Den adjourned. As its proceedings had consisted in an uninterrupted uproar for two consecutive hours, the new boys, none of whom were seasoned to it, were all more or less tired.
Poor young Aspinall, in particular, was very tired. He had had a rough time of it; and had tremblingly complied with every demand any one chose to make of him. He had parted with all his available “swoppable” goods; he had stood on a form and sung little hymns to a derisive audience; he had answered questions as to his mother, his sister, and other members of his family; he had endured buffeting and kicks, till he was fairly worn out, and till it ceased to be amusing to torment him.
When finally he was released, and found himself on his way to the dormitory, under Dick’s sheltering wing, he broke down.
“I wish I was dead,” he said, miserably, “it’s awful here.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Dick, a trifle impatiently, for with all his good heart he got tired of the boy’s perpetual tears. “You’ll get used to it soon. Haven’t you got any pluck in you?”
“It’s all very well for you,” said the boy; “fellows seem to let you alone, and not care to touch you; but they see I can’t stand up for myself.”
“More shame if they do,” said Dick bluntly; “I don’t believe you when you say so. I call it cant. How do you know? You can’t tell till you try.”
“Oh, don’t be angry, please,” said the boy. “I know you are right; I really will try, if you stick up for me.”