“Yes, but you were too lazy to practice,” remarked Cap frankly.
“How brutal of you!” cried Chapin, with a mock theatrical air. “Didn’t I even forgive my enemies and beg them to take me into the banjo club?”
“Which, for the good of the service, they refused to do,” went on the elder Smith.
“Oh, have you no mercy?” asked the visitor in a high falsetto voice, striking an attitude.
“We’re all out of it—expect a fresh lot in next week,” answered Bill. Then after a pause he added: “Now there’s a thing you could do, Bob.”
“What’s that?”
“Go in for theatricals. Why don’t you join the Paint and Powder club?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Afraid of spoiling my complexion with burnt cork and grease preparations, I guess,” was the indolent reply. “But I don’t want to discuss myself. I was asking if you fellows didn’t find it dull here? Why, there hasn’t been a thing pulled off since we brought the calf into the ancient history class two weeks ago. It is frightfully dull at Westfield. Don’t you think so, really?”
“Hadn’t noticed it,” replied Cap. “What with baseball practice, and digging and boning and lectures and writing home occasionally for money we manage to exist; eh fellows?”
“Sure!” chorused his brothers.