“Well,” I sighed, “I’ve little choice!”
“How would you like to spend the summer at a neat little hotel in Michigan?”
“Thropper!”
“And room in a little cottage in the midst of a little grove of pines, near little sandhills, among a little group of the finest fellows in the world—college students?” continued Thropper, with a smile.
“A little bit too much imagination in your little talk, my dear little fellow!” I retorted.
“And go down to the beach every day for a bath among the big waves, and go boating and fishing; seeing the great crowds of excursionists and vacationists!”
“Go on,” I gasped, “have it out, Thropper, if you particularly enjoy the stunt!”
“Food,” continued my roommate, “well, let me see: strawberry shortcake à la much, mutton chops with bacon à la juicy, calves’ brains on toast à la delicious, hashed browned potatoes à la second helping, and for desserts: cream and jellies, sherberts and pies—”
“—À la imagination, eh, Thropper,” I interrupted.
My roommate’s rugged face was overspread with a grin. He clapped me over the shoulder and said, continuing his whim: