interpreted it as a denial.

"Sick?" He asked next.

"Yes!" said Chip, shortly and falsely.

"We'll call the doctor in, then," volunteered Jack Bates.

"I don't think you will. When I'm sick enough for that I'll let you
know. I'm going to bed."

"Aw, come on and let him alone. Chip's able t' take care of himself,
I guess," said Weary, mercifully, holding open the door.

They trooped out, and the last heard of them was Cal, remarking:

"Gee whiz! I'd have t' be ready t' croak before I'd miss this chance uh
dealing old Dunk misery."

Chip sat where they had left him, staring unseeingly down at the
uncompleted sketch. His cigarette went out, but he did not roll
a fresh one and held the half-burned stub abstractedly between his
lips, set in bitter lines.

Why should he care what a slip of a girl thought of him? He didn't
care; he only--that thought he did not follow to the end, but started
immediately on a new one. He supposed he was ignorant, according to
Eastern standards. Lined up alongside Dr. Cecil Granthum--damn him!--
he would cut a sorry figure, no doubt. He had never seen the outside
of a college, let alone imbibing learning within one. He had learned