"Shed a fiddlestick!" squeaked a little sceptic.

"No" said another, "he didn't quite shed it; his pride wouldn't let him."

"So he decanted it, and put it by for supper, suggested Edward, and
puffed.

"None of your chaff, Six. He had a gulp or two, and swallowed the rest by
main force."

"Don't you talk: you can swallow anything, it seems." (Puff.)

"Well, I believe it," said one of Hardie's own set. "Dodd doesn't know
him as we do. Taff Hardie can't bear to be beat."

When they were gone, Mrs. Dodd observed, "Dear me! what if the young
gentleman did cry a little, it was very excusable; after such great
exertions it _was_ disappointing, mortifying. I pity him for one, and
wish he had his mother alive and here, to dry them."*

*Oh where, _and_ oh where, _was_ her Lindley Murray gone?

"Mamma, it is you for reading us," cried Edward, slapping his thigh.
"Well, then, since you can feel for a fellow, Hardie _was_ a good deal
cut up. You know the university was in a manner beaten, and he took the
blame. He never cried; that was a cracker of those fellows. But he did
give one great sob, that was all, and hung his head on one side a moment.
But then he fought out of it directly, like a man; and there was an end
of it, or ought to have been. Hang chatterboxes!"