Bert and Dick roomed together, while Tom’s quarters were on the floor below. Now, as it was nearer, they all piled into Tom’s sitting-room, eager to discuss the contents of the official letter.
“Here it is,” said Bert, as he tossed it over to the others. “You see, I have the southern route.”
“O, thunder,” groaned Tom, “the toughest of the lot. You’ll fairly melt down there at this time of year.”
“It is rough,” said Dick. “The roads there are something fierce. The northern or central route would have been ten times better.”
“Yes,” agreed Bert, “it certainly is a handicap. If I’d been left to choose, myself, I wouldn’t have dreamed of going that way. Still, it’s all a matter of lot, and I’ve got no kick coming. Somebody would have had to draw it, and I might as well be the victim as any one else.”
“Spoken like a sport, all right,” grumbled Tom. “But it makes me sore at fate. You’ll need something more than Reddy’s shamrock to make up for it.”
“You might hunt me up the hind foot of a rabbit, shot by a cross-eyed coon in a graveyard, in the ‘dark of the moon,’ if you want to make sure of my winning,” jested Bert. “But, seriously, fellows, I’m not going to let that rattle me a little bit. It may be harder, but if I do come in first, there’ll be all the more credit in winning. As for the heat, I’ll make my own breeze as I go along, and I’ll take my chances on the roads.”
“Well, I suppose there’s no use growling,” admitted Tom, grudgingly. “At any rate, we’ll see a section of the country we’ve never seen before.”
“We,” cried Bert. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just what I say,” answered Tom, looking a little guiltily at Dick.