His self-esteem was at a very low ebb when Bob, dismissed from the
infirmary, returned to his old quarters. Van was seldom depressed--so
seldom, in fact, that the sight aroused in his chum nothing but an
anxiety lest he be ill. Surely nothing but sickness could cause Van
Blake to lie on a couch, his face buried in pillows!
"What's the matter, old fellow?" called Bob the instant he was
inside the door. "Are you used up?"
No answer.
"I say, what's the trouble?" Bob repeated, hurrying to his side.
It took much questioning before the story could be drawn from the
boy's reluctant lips.
"When Bob had at last heard it he was silent.
"Can't you say something?" queried Van peevishly.
"I hardly know what to say," Bob answered with slow gentleness. "I'm
so sorry--so sorry and upset. I can't for the life of me understand
how you came to do such a thing. Did you expect to get away with it?
You must have known you would be missed at recitations and tracked
down."
"That's right--rub it in!"
"I'm not rubbing it in; I'm only trying to understand it."
"There's nothing to understand. I just was crazy to go to that ball
game and I started. I should have gone, too, if it hadn't been for
the kid getting hurt."
"It was bully of you to bring him back, anyway," Bob said. "Of
course you knew it was all up with you when you did it."
"I didn't think about it at all. I wasn't thinking of anything but
that poor little chap who was mowed down by the brute in that car.
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