“All right, go ahead. More power to ye, as Bricktop Molloy would say. I wonder if he’s coming back this term?”
“Yep. Post graduate course, I hear. He wouldn’t miss the football team for anything. Well, you hold down things here until I come back. If the new freshmen who are to occupy this room come along, tell ’em we’ll be moved by noon.”
“I doubt it; but go ahead. I’ll try to be comfortable until your return, dearest,” and with a mocking smile Tom Parsons sank down into an easy chair that threatened to collapse under his substantial bulk. From the faded cushions a cloud of dust arose, and set Tom to sneezing so hard that the old chair creaked and rattled, as if it would fall apart.
“Easy! Easy there, old chap!” exclaimed the tall, good-looking lad, as he peered on either side of the seat. “Don’t go back on me now. You’ll soon have a change of climate, and maybe that will be good for your old bones.”
He settled back, stuck his feet out before him, and gazed about the room. It was a very much dismantled apartment. In the center was piled a collection of baseball bats, tennis racquets, boxing gloves, foils, catching gloves, a football, some running trousers, a couple of sweaters, and a nondescript collection of books. There were also a couple of trunks, while, flanking the pile, was the old sofa and the arm chair. On top of all the alarm clock was ticking comfortably away, as happy as though moving from one college dormitory to another was a most matter-of-fact proceeding. The hands pointed to one o’clock, when it was, as Tom ascertained by looking at his watch, barely nine; but a little thing like that did not seem to give the clock any concern.
“I do hope Phil can rig up some scheme so we can move the sofa,” murmured the occupant of the easy chair. “That’s like part of ourselves now. It will make the new room seem more like home. I wonder where Sid can be? This is more of his moving than it is Phil’s, but Sid always manages to get out of hard work. Phil is anxious to room with us, I guess.”
Tom Parsons stretched his legs out a little farther, and let his gaze once more roam about the room. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation, as his eye caught sight of something on the wall.
“Came near forgetting that,” he said as he arose, amid another cloud of dust from the chair, and removed from a spot on the wall, behind the door, the picture of a pretty girl. “I never put that there,” he went on, as he wiped the dust from the photograph, and turned it over to look at the name written on the back—Madge Tyler. “Sid must have done that for a joke. He thought I’d forget it, and leave it for some freshy to make fun of. Not much! I got ahead of you that time, Sid, my boy. Queer how he doesn’t like girls,” added Tom, with the air of an expert. “Well, probably it’s just as well he doesn’t take too much to Madge, for——”
But Tom’s musings, which were getting rather sentimental, were interrupted by the entrance of Phil Clinton. Phil had under one arm some boards, while in one hand he carried a hammer, and in the other some nails.
“Just the cheese,” he announced. “Now we’ll have this thing fixed up in jig time. Hasn’t Sid Henderson showed up?”