“I say, Remington,” somebody called after him.
Tommy started at the unaccustomed sound of his name.
“Hullo, Reeves,” he said, as he turned and recognized him.
“How are you, old man?” and Reeves held out his hand and gave Tommy’s a hearty clasp that brought his heart into his throat. “Come up to my room awhile, can’t you, and let’s have a talk.”
“Of course I can,” said Tommy, and in a moment was stumbling after Reeves up the stairs of Hamill House with a queer mist before his eyes.
“This is my sanctum,” Reeves remarked, turning up the light. “Sit down here”; and he threw himself on the window-seat opposite. “Now tell me about it, old fellow. I’ve heard the fellows jawing, of course, but I want to know the straight of it.”
And Tommy opened the flood-gates of his heart and poured the story forth. Reeves listened to the end without interrupting by word or sign.
“But how does it come,” he asked at last, “that you can’t keep up and play football too? The other fellows do, and they don’t drive us so hard here. Hasn’t your prep been good?”
“Good?” echoed Tommy. “Why, man, three years ago I couldn’t read nor write.”
“Whew!” whistled Reeves, and sat up and looked at him. “Say, tell me about that. I should like to hear about that.”