“When the devil a saint would be, the devil a saint was he,” quoted Wolfe. “I can’t believe he’s in earnest.”
“Somehow, I think he is. He’s not the sort of fellow to try deception on us.”
“Well, confound him!” snapped Bern. “If he’s really in earnest, I’d like to punch him. Only for him I might be playing on the baseball team now. I’d like to tell you a few things, Ditson. Where can we go?”
“There’s my room,” suggested Dunc.
“The very place,” said Bern eagerly.
Among the anti-Merriwellites Ditson was something of an aristocrat. He was a fellow who regarded himself as very exclusive and well-bred. He roomed alone, and his rooms were furnished with something like luxury. There were fine rugs on the floors, plenty of books, easy lounging chairs, athletic pictures on the walls, and the usual Yale flags, crossed foils, boxing gloves, Indian clubs, and so forth.
“You’ve got slick rooms,” observed Bern, as he flung himself on Duncan’s comfortable, cushion-piled couch.
“Oh, they don’t satisfy me,” said Ditson. “I’m going to have something decent next term. I’ve got the rooms spotted now.”
“Of course, you’re going to leave this locality?”
“Well, I should say so. You don’t suppose I’d hang around Freshman Row in my sophomore year? I’ll be glad when I get into a dormitory. Have a smoke, Wolfe?”