“Oh ho! So that’s the kind of talk, eh?” sneered the one called Sam. “What’s your name, Fresh?”
“Fairfield—Tom Fairfield—Fresh!” retorted Tom, for he could see by the other’s cap that he, too, was a first year lad.
“Well mine’s Heller—Sam Heller, Capital ‘S’ and capital ‘H,’ and don’t forget it. This must be the fellow who’s got my room, Nick,” he added.
“Probably,” replied Sam Heller’s crony, who was Nick Johnson. “Yes, that was the name the monitor mentioned, come to think of it.”
“How have I your room?” asked Tom.
“Because you have. I had the room last year, and I told ’em to save it for me this term. But you came along and snatched it up, so—”
“I took it because it was assigned to me,” spoke Tom, and from the other’s talk he understood that the lad was a Freshman who had not passed, and who, in consequence, was obliged to spend another year in the same grade. Perhaps this made him bitter.
“Well, you’ve got my room,” grumbled Sam, “and I’m going to get square with somebody.”
“You can get square with me, if you like,” said Tom quietly, “though I told you I had nothing to do with it. One thing, though, if you do any more shoving I’ll shove back, and it won’t be a gentle shove, either.”
“Is that a threat?” growled Sam.