"Only that if I hear the name of Popham much more, I believe I shall go mad on the spot."
"Oh, don't take it so hard as that. Most likely you'll be able to beat him out anyway, if you make progress, and he's likely to drink himself out of college anyway before—"
"Shut up, James, for Heaven's sake!" There was real anger in Harry's tone, and James turned and looked at him with surprise. "You're as bad as every one else—worse! Don't you know me better than to suppose that all my chances of happiness in college, in this world, in the next, depend on Popham's drinking himself to death? Do you think it's pleasant for me to know that every one considers my—my success, I suppose you'd call it, dependent on whether that rounder stays off probation or not? You make me sick, James."
James remained silent a moment. "No offense meant," he said gently. "I'm sure I'm sorry if—"
"Oh, rot!" Harry disclaimed offense by slipping his hand through his brother's arm. "Only you don't seem to see, James. That's what bothers me."
"Well, no; I'm afraid I don't. It will be a great thing for you if you get your Y next year. Do you think it's low of me to wish that Popham, who is no good anyway, should get out of your way?"
"No; the wish is kindly meant, of course.... But this idea that my whole worldly happiness is tied up with Popham takes the pleasure out of it all, somehow. I don't give a continental whether I get my Y or not, now."
"Oh, come on. Don't be morbid."
"No. I've a good mind not to go out for track any more."
James made no answer to this, and the two walked on in silence till they had reached the house. As they walked up the front steps James said: