“We’d better be getting breakfast and showing up on the job,” he said; and together they sought the mess tent.
Over the breakfast of bacon and fried potatoes the talk swung back to the rapidly nearing end of their summer outing.
“I suppose you’ll be getting ready to go to college in a week or so, now, won’t you?”—thus Larry, with his eyes on his plate.
“Yep; that’s the way it’s doped out for me.”
“Do you know what college you’re going to?”
“Oh, sure; it’ll be father’s college—finest old technical school in the country. Didn’t lose a single football game last year, and only two in the baseball series. Some snappy record, that, I’ll say.”
Larry grinned.
“Is that the way you stack up the good points of a college?”
“Why not?” Dick argued. “Fellow has to make high grades in that school or he can’t make the teams. That’s iron-clad, and, naturally, it means high stuff all around. No boneheads need apply. But what are you going to do, Larry?”
“Ump,” said Larry, still with his eyes on his plate, “it’s ‘back to the farm’ for me. I was wiping engines in the Brewster round-house when your father gave me this vacation, and in a little while I reckon I’ll be wiping ’em again.”