“Here is Duncan Peck, another of my friends. He rooms on the same floor with me.”
“I’m very glad to meet you, sir,” said Duncan, who, slow though he might be in the classroom, was always ready with a polite phrase. “You came to see your son play, I suppose.”
But Mr. Lindsay was not to be taken in. “I am happy to meet any of your friends, Wolcott,” he said, “but this young gentleman hardly needs a second introduction. Poole brought him up a moment ago.”
“Oh, no, sir,” replied the smiling Duncan, promptly. “You must have mixed me up with some one else. I am sure that you have never seen me before.”
Mr. Lindsay stared blankly at the glib youth, wondering what could be the object of this evident falsehood.
“This is Duncan,” explained Wolcott. “It was another copy of him named Donald, that Poole introduced. You really must see them together. They’re the pride of the menagerie.”
At this moment Poole brought up the fugitive again, and standing him beside his brother, asked Mr. Lindsay to tell which he had first met. And while Mr. Lindsay stood in puzzled amusement, there was a scream from a near-by locomotive, and the cheer leaders began shouting through their megaphones again: “Keep off the track! This is not our train! This is the train for Boston! Keep off the track!”
“That’s my train,” said Mr. Lindsay.
“Come back with us and see the celebration!” cried Wolcott.
For a moment Mr. Lindsay felt tempted, not by the celebration, of course, but by a desire to linger in the society of these friendly lads among whom he felt the full charm of vigorous, light-hearted, unsoured youth. Second thoughts came quickly. “I think I have had about all the celebration that is good for me; I am as tired now as if I had played the game.”