But something rankled in his heart, and, try as he might he could not help clenching his teeth and gripping his hands as he thought of Ford Weston.
“I—I’d like to fight him!” murmured Joe. “I wonder if they allow fights at Yale?”
Several days later you might have heard this in the Matson home.
“Well, Joe, have you got everything packed?”
“Don’t forget to send me a flag.”
“You’ve got your ticket all right, haven’t you?”
“Write as soon as you get there.”
“And whatever you do, don’t go around with wet feet. It’s coming on Winter now——”
“Mother! Mother!” broke in Mr. Matson, with a laugh at his wife and daughter on either side of Joe, questioning and giving advice by turns. “You’re like hens with one chicken. Don’t coddle him so. He’s been away before, and he’s getting big enough to know his way around by this time.”
Well might he say so, for Joe had grown fast in the past three years, and, though but nineteen, was taller than his father, who was not a small man.