“Look, there’s old Brandy!” exclaimed Sam, nudging Duncan sharply in the ribs. “How did he get here?”
“How does he get anywhere?” retorted Duncan. “On his cheek, of course.”
Brantwein swung himself along to the seat occupied by Sam and Duncan. He was dressed in his best, and carried himself with a noticeable air of importance.
“Going out to the game?” he asked coolly.
“Yes, are you?”
“I’m going to something, I don’t know what. Either the track or to see the freshmen play.”
“How did you get off?” questioned Sam.
“I had business in Boston.”
“Buying peanuts?”
Brandy smiled. It was his regular armor-plated smile against which all personal jokes fell dead and harmless. “No, buying a peanut farm and a burying-ground for fools. I’ve got to lay out about a dozen up there at Seaton before I leave. You fellows are feeling lively to-day.”