“Cosy place you’ve got here,” he remarked, blowing cigarette smoke about in clouds. “Quite a collection of antiques.”
“Yes, we like old things best,” remarked Tom significantly, wondering whether the lines about “old books, and old friends,” would recur to Shambler. But it did not seem to.
“Well, it won’t be long before we have the Spring games,” went on the visitor. “I’ll be glad of it, too, for I’m training hard, too hard, I guess. I’m going to have a little recreation to-night. Some friends and I are going in to town. Don’t some of you want to come along?”
None of the inseparables accepted the invitation.
“I’m taking chances, too,” went on Shambler. “I’ve been caught two or three times, lately, and Zane warned me that the next time would mean suspension. But I’ll chance it. A fellow has to have some fun. Any of you smoke?” and he extended his box of cigarettes.
“It’s bad—when you’re in training,” remarked Phil. “Count us out.”
“You, too, Parsons?” asked Shambler. “Say, by the way,” he went on, “I met a friend of yours the other night. Miss Tyler, of Fairview. At least she said she knew you. Fine girl.”
“Yes,” half growled Tom, the blood flushing his face. “I’m going to see if there’s any mail,” he added quickly, as he left the room.
“Anything wrong?” asked Shambler of the others. “Have I been poaching on his preserves?”