"Well,—er—not exactly, Tom," muttered John Powell, otherwise known as Songbird because of his numerous efforts to compose what he called poetry. "But I have been thinking up a few rhymes."
"When are you going to get out that book of poetry?"
"What book is that, Tom?"
"Why, as if you didn't know! Didn't you tell me that you were going to get up a volume of 'Original International Poems for the Grave and Gay;' five hundred pages, fully illustrated; and bound in full leather, with title in gold, and..."
"Tom, Tom, now please stop your fooling!" pleaded Songbird, his face flushing. "Just because I write a poem now and then doesn't say that I am going to publish a book."
"No, but I'm sure you will some day, and you'll make a fortune out of it—or fifteen dollars, anyway."
"The same old Tom!" cried a merry voice, and another student clapped the fun-loving Rover on the shoulder. "I do believe you would rather joke than eat!"
"Not on your life, Spud! and I'll prove it to you right now!" and linking his arm through that of Will Jackson, otherwise "Spud," Tom led the way to one of the tables, with Sam and several of the other students following.
"What is on the docket for to-night?" asked Songbird, as he fell to eating.
"Tom and I are going to take a little run in the auto to Hope," answered Sam.