“Some crooked work probably,” remarked Tommy Beals. “Now what I’d like would be a good job bell-hopping at some swell summer hotel. A fellow can make all kinds of dough on tips.”
“Sure, you’d look cute in a coat with no tail to it and a million little brass buttons sewed all over the front!” laughed Dick Somers. “What you really need, Fatty, is a job as soda-fountain expert, where you can get enough sugar and cream to keep your weight up to the notch.”
There was a general laugh at this in which Tommy joined good-naturedly.
“I guess what we’re all looking for is a chance to make some money this summer,” suggested Ned. “What Red says about this being a dead dump is true of every town, until somebody starts something. It’s up to us to show signs of life. I don’t believe any of us would be content to loaf till next September.”
“Speak for yourself, Ned,” yawned Dave Wilbur, who, stretched at full length on his back, was lazily trying to balance a straw on the tip of his long nose. “I’m enjoying myself fine right here—and besides you want to remember that ‘a rolling stone gathers no moss.’”
“Bony Jones got a job down at the Pavilion dance hall,” remarked Tapley. “His old man has something to do with the place and they took Bony on as assistant. Pretty soft, I’ll say.”
“I was hoping to get a chance down there with the jazz orchestra,” lamented Rogers, “but I hear they’ve brought two saxophone players up from Cleveland, which lets me out.”
“Tough luck, Red,” sympathized Tommy. “You and Wat ought to find a chance somewhere to do a turn with sax and traps; the Pavilion isn’t the only place.”
“What’s the matter with our running some dances of our own?” asked Ned. “The Pavilion is usually over-crowded and we ought to get some of the business.”
“Who do you mean by we?” inquired Wat Sanford.