“Well, I guess we have,” put in Sid. “We’re moving some of our things to our new room.”
Langridge, followed by the other well-dressed lad, came down a few steps. He saw the old sofa, and exclaimed:
“What! Do you mean to say that you fellows are moving that fuzzy-wuzzy piece of architecture into this dormitory? I’ll not stand for it! I’ll complain to the proctor! Why, it’s full of disease germs!”
“Yes, and you’re full of prune juice!” cried Phil Clinton, unable to stand the arrogant words and manner of Langridge.
“Don’t get gay with me!” exclaimed Tom’s former rival.
“I’ll lay you five to three that you can’t jump over their heads and clear the sofa,” put in the other student, whom Langridge had called Gerhart. “Do any of you fellows want to bet?” he asked rather sneeringly, as he looked down at Tom, Phil and Sid.
“I guess not,” answered Tom, good-naturedly enough.
“Ah, you’re not sports, I see,” rejoined Gerhart. “I thought you said this was a sporty college, Langridge?”
“So it is, when you strike the right crowd, and not a lot of greasy digs,” was the answer. “I say, are you chaps going to move back and let me and Gerhart pass?” he went on.
“No, we’re not,” replied Phil shortly. “You can wait until we get up. Go on back now, Langridge, and we’ll soon have this out of the way.”