He tore open his suit case, and went into dressing with such furious energy that the room was filled with baseball uniforms and sections of underwear and clean shirts when Billy flung open the door.
“What’s goin’ on here?” demanded the astonished Billy Mac.
“Me, mostly,” said Clancy. “Where’s Chip?”
“How do I know? Say, are you just getting up?”
“No!” roared Clancy, half into a clean shirt. “I’m sitting on Brooklyn Bridge making mince pie, you bonehead!”
“Oh, don’t let me disturb you,” said Billy sarcastically. “If you haven’t got your beauty sleep, old sorrel top, go right back to bed. It’s only ten o’clock, and I thought maybe you’d like to take a sunrise swim down in the mill pond.”
Clancy cut these remarks short by seizing a pillow and letting fly. Billy was sent back into the corner, and came up grinning.
“Where’s Chip?”
“Look under the bed,” retorted Clancy. “I just woke up. I suppose he’s dug out for the river himself. There’s no sign of a bathroom around this jay hotel.”
“What d’you expect for three dollars a week? There, leave off that white shirt, Clan! We’ll go down to the crick and meet Chip, then come back here and dress.”