“What an unspeakable affliction!”
Dashleigh started to say something, and then flourished his mandolin at Ready, as if to smite him. But the queer fellow waltzed away.
“Say, fellows!” he cried, “I was down to Traeger’s, with Ned Donovan and his friends, last night, and we had a corking good time.”
“By the bottles you had around you when I dropped in there last evening, I fancied you were having an uncorking good time,” observed Berlin Carson.
“Now, that’s not bad for a tenderfoot from the wild and woolly,” nodded Jack, regarding Carson approvingly. “My boy, you are coming. Why, gentlemen, when he struck New Haven he was a walking arsenal! He carried a gun on each hip, three bowie-knives in his belt, two more in his boots, and had derringers in his sleeves. The first night at Old Lady Harrington’s retreat for freshmen he went to bed with his spurs on. Just forgot to unshackle them from his boots, you know. Of course, Mrs. Harrington made a gentle kick in the morning, when she found his spur-tracks in her sheets, and I understand he had to settle for the sheets. That taught him a lesson. After that he remembered to take his spurs off his boots before rolling in. Oh, there’s nothing like experience as a teacher. I have heard that he sometimes removes his boots on going to bed now.”
Carson took this guying good-naturedly.
“That’s all right,” he said. “At least, I don’t do one trick that I hear is customary with you. Fellows, why do you suppose Ready puts his pocketbook under his pillow every night when he goes to bed?”
“He cuc-cuc-can’t be afraid of ru-ru-robbers,” grinned Joe Gamp, “’cuc-’cuc-’cause he never has enough mum-money to tut-tempt a robber who was lul-lul-looking for the price of a drink.”
“Still he does put his pocketbook under his pillow, I’ve heard,” declared Berlin. “And for that very reason he reminds me of a thrifty business man.”
“How is that?” asked Boxer.