Larry shook his head. As a matter of fact, he had been seeing far too little of Dick since the Zeta Omegas had taken him in. For the first week or two Dick had dropped in at the Man-o’-War every evening or so. But the “drop-ins” had grown farther and farther apart as time went on, until now they had stopped altogether.
“No, I don’t see him very often, except on the campus,” Larry admitted. “What makes you ask?”
“It’s none of my business,” Purdick went on rather hesitantly, “but he’s running with a pretty rapid bunch. Did you ever hear of the ‘Mixers’?”
“No; what is it?”
“It’s a private club, and it meets over in town. That ought to tell you all you need to know about it.”
“It doesn’t.” Apart from athletics and his job on the Micrometer, Larry knew little of what went on outside of his classroom work.
Little Purdick was staring at the darkened window; a habit he had when he had to say something that he didn’t want to say. And what he said didn’t explain much—except by inference.
“We can give the frats credit for one thing, anyway,” he remarked. “They don’t allow card-playing for money in the houses.”
“Gee!” said Larry, with a gasp; “are you trying to tell me that this ‘Mixer’ thing is a gambling club?”