“Well, we had a good time,” remarked Tom, a little later, as the four entered the room they shared in common. “Hello!” he cried, “the clock has stopped.”
He caught up a nickel-plated alarm timepiece, and began shaking it vigorously.
“What are you trying to do?” gasped Phil indignantly, as he snatched the clock from Tom. “Do you want to ruin it?”
“I was trying to make it go.”
“Yes, and get the hair-spring caught up so she’ll do two hours in the time of one. Handle it gently, you vandal!” and he rocked the clock easily to and fro, until a loud ticking indicated that it had started again.
“And now for boning,” remarked Frank, as he sank into one of the twin armchairs that adorned the room. One was a relic—an heirloom—and the other had come to the boys in a peculiar manner. Both were old and worn, but the personification of comfort—so much so that once you had gotten into one you did not want to get out. Also it was hard work to arise unassisted, because of the depth.
Tom took the other chair, and Sid and Phil shared the dilapidated sofa between them. It creaked and groaned with their weight.
“I guess we’ll have to be investing in a new one, soon,” remarked Phil, as he tenderly felt of the sofa’s ‘bones’. “This won’t last much longer.”
“It will serve our time,” spoke Sid. “Don’t you dare suggest a new one. It would be sacrilege.”
Tired, but happy and contented, and in a glorious glow from their coasting, the boys began looking for their books, to do a last bit of studying before the signal for “lights out” should sound.