“Oh, I see.”
“There are a couple of ’em now,” went on Ricky, who seemed perfectly at ease in his comparatively new surroundings. He was a lad who made friends easily, Joe decided. “Hi, Heller, plow over here!” Ricky called to a tall lad who was working his way through the throng. “Bring Jones along with you. They’re both at our shack,” he went on in a low voice to Joe. “Shake hands with Matson—he’s one of us chickens,” he continued, and he presented the newcomers as though he had known them all their lives.
“You seem at home,” remarked Jones, who was somewhat remarkable for his thinness.
“I am—Slim!” exclaimed Ricky. “I say, you don’t mind if I call you that; do you?” he asked. “That’s what the other fellows do; isn’t it?”
“Yes. How’d you guess it?” asked Jones, with a laugh.
“Easy. I’m Ricky—Richard by rights, but I don’t like it. Call me Ricky.”
“All right, I will,” agreed Slim Jones.
“I’m Hank Heller, if you’re going in for names,” came from the other youth, while Joe had to admit that his appellation was thus shortened from Joseph.
“Well, now we know each other let’s work our jaws on something besides words,” suggested Ricky. “Here, do we get waited on, Alphonse?” he called to a passing waiter.
Joe thought he had never been in such a delightful place, nor in such fine company. It was altogether different from life at Excelsior Hall, and though there were scenes that were not always decorous from a strict standpoint, yet Joe realized that he was getting farther out on the sea of life, and must take things as they came. But he resolved to hold a proper rein on himself, and, though deep in his heart he had no real love for college life, he determined to do his best at it.