As for Tom and Phil, the more adornments they had the better they liked it, though I must do them the credit to say that they only had one place of honor for one girl’s photograph at a time. But they sometimes changed girls. Then, on their side, were more or less fancy pictures—scenes, mottoes, and what not. Much of the ornamentation had been given them by young lady friends.
Of course the old chair and an older sofa, together with the alarm clock, which had been handed down from student to student until the mind of Randallites ran not to the contrary, were the chief other things in the apartment, aside from the occupants thereof. Each lad had a desk, and a bureau or chiffonier, or “Chauffeur” as Holly Cross used to dub them. These articles of furniture were more or less in confusion. Neckties, handkerchiefs, collars and cuffs were piled in a seemingly inextricable, if not artistic, confusion. Nor could much else be expected in a room where three chums made a habit of indiscriminately borrowing each other’s articles of wearing apparel, provided they came any where near fitting.
On the floor was a much worn rug, which Phil had bought at auction at an almost prohibitive price, under the delusion that it was a rare Oriental. Learning to the contrary he and his chums had decided to keep it, since, old and dirty as it was, they argued that it saved them the worriment of cleaning their feet when they came in.
Then there were three neat, white, iron beds—neat because they were made up fresh every day, and there was a dormitory rule against having them in disorder. Otherwise they would have suffered the fate of the walls, the rug or the couch and easy chair. Altogether it was a fairly typical student apartment, and it was occupied, as I hope my readers will believe, by three of the finest chaps it has been my lot to write about; and it is in this room that my story opens, with the three lads busily engaged in one way or another.
“Oh, I say! Hang it all!” burst out Sid finally. “How in the mischief do you shove a needle through this leather, Tom? It won’t seem to go, for me.”
“You should use a thimble,” observed Tom. “Nothing like ’em, son.”
“Thimble!” cried Sid scornfully. “Do you take me for an old maid? Where did you ever learn to use a thimble?” and he walked over to where Tom was making an exceedingly neat job of mending his glove.
“Oh, I picked it up,” responded the pitcher of the Randall ’varsity nine. “Comes in handy when your foot goes through your socks.”
“Yes, and that’s what they do pretty frequently these days,” added Phil. “If you haven’t anything to do, Tom, I wish you’d get busy on some of my footwear. I just got a batch back from the laundry, and I’m blessed if out of the ten pairs of socks I can get one whole pair.”
“I’ll look ’em over,” promised the pitcher. “There, that’s as good as new; in fact better, for it fits my hand,” and he held up and gazed critically at the mended glove. “Where’s yours, Sid?” he went on. “I’ll mend it for you.”