“We agree to that,” said Mr. Lighton quickly, and the incident was considered closed. But Professor Tines, if he had only known it, was the most disliked instructor in college from then on. He had been hated before, but now the venom was bitter against him.
“We’re well out of that,” remarked Tom to Phil, as they went to their room, having gotten rid of their football togs. “I wonder what fun Pitchfork has in life, anyhow?”
“Reading Latin and Greek, I guess. That reminds me, I must bone away a bit myself to-night. I guess Sid is in,” he added, as he heard some one moving about in the room.
They entered to find their chum standing on a chair, reaching up to one of the silken banners Tom had hung with such pride.
“Here, you old anchorite! What are you doing?” cried Phil.
“Why, I’m trying to make this room look decent,” said Sid. “You’ve got it so cluttered up that I can’t stand it! Isn’t it enough to have pictures stuck all over?”
“Here, you let that banner alone!” cried Tom, and he gave such a jerk to the chair on which Sid was standing that the objector to things artistic toppled to the floor with a resounding crash.
“I’ll punch your head!” he cried to Tom, who promptly ensconced himself behind the bed.
“Hurt yourself?” asked Phil innocently. “If you did it’s a judgment on you, misogynist that you are.”