“Glad to know you,” spoke Ricky. “Got a handle?”
“A what?”
“Nickname. I always think it’s easier to get acquainted with a fellow if he’s got one. It isn’t so stiff.”
“Maybe you’re right. Well, the fellows back home used to call me ‘Spike’.”
“What for?” demanded Joe.
“Because my father was in the hardware business.”
“I see!” laughed Ricky. “Good enough. Spike suits me. I say, you’ve got a pretty fair joint here,” he went on admiringly. “And some stuff, believe me!” There was envy in his tones as he looked around the room, and noted the various articles Joe was digging out of his trunk—some fencing foils, boxing gloves, a baseball bat and mask, and a number of foreign weapons which Joe had begun to collect in one of his periodical fits and then had given up. “They’ll look swell stuck around the walls,” went on Ricky.
“Yes, it sort of tones up the place, I guess,” admitted Joe.
“I’ve got a lot of flags,” spoke Spike. “My trunk didn’t come, though. Hope it’ll be here to-morrow.”