"Timberly," said Tucker, smiling in spite of himself, "I thought I told you not to come up here this evening."
"I believe you did. That's so." Timberly was trying to look serious. Then brightening up at the sight of Symington as if remembering something. "But you see," he said, "I wanted to meet the pitcher." Tucker grinned and introduced them.
Timberly shook Symington's hand vigorously and said, "Wasn't that a smooth song I sang on the steps—hey? I'm a good one, only none of 'em appreciate me. Oh, yes, I nearly forgot—I'm up here on business. I'm up here on business, Tommy Tucker," he repeated, and daintily kicked off Tucker's cap and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. Tucker kept on working. Symington wondered what Timberly was doing.
It was nearly half-past eight now, and other fellows began dropping in. Some helloed first and some came unannounced. Tucker looked up to see who they were. Sometimes he said "Hello" and sometimes he did not. Some of them took off their caps. Others did not. Tucker left it to the first ones to introduce Symington to the later ones.
After half an hour's absence Timberly emerged from the room finishing a sentence he had begun before he opened the door. "And Tommy, you must do the rest. You can tie them so nicely too."
"Tommy, look," said the man with the banjo on the sofa.
Timberly was standing up straight, nicely incased in evening clothes and holding two ends of a white tie in his hands. He looked well-groomed and seemed like a different man now. Perhaps he was.
"What are you doing?" said Tucker, in a stern voice.
"I've got to do it. It's two years now, and it's not good form to let a dinner call go more than two years in Princeton. Here, Tommy, fix this."
"Do it yourself."