But, if they changed their room, they did not change the furniture—at least they kept all the old, though getting some new. Among the former, were the two ancient armchairs, known to my readers, and the decrepit sofa, which had been mended until it seemed that nothing of the original was there. And then there was the alarm clock, which served to awaken the lads—that is, when they did not stop it from ticking by jabbing a toothpick somewhere up in the interior mechanism.
As for the friends of our heroes they were many, and their enemies few. You will meet them, old as well as new, as the story progresses.
“There sure is some water!” exclaimed Tom, as he gazed from shore to shore of the turbulent stream.
“And it’s getting higher,” added Phil.
“And going to rain more,” came from Sid.
“Oh, there’ll be a flood sure, if you calamity-howlers have your way,” remarked Frank. “Give way there! What are you doing, Phil—stalling on me?”
“Say, who made you the coxswain, anyhow?” demanded the aggrieved one.
The boys reached Randall just as the downpour began again, but their spirits had been raised by the row, and by the good news which Frank had heard. It was confirmed a little later by an announcement on the bulletin board, calling for a meeting of the athletic committee, within a few days, to consider the matter.
“Say, this is going to be great!” cried Holly Cross, one of the football squad. “Rowing is something Randall always needed.”
“And she needs rowers, too, don’t forget that, Holly, me lad!” exclaimed Bricktop Molloy, a genial Irish lad who was taking a post-graduate course, after an absence of some time at Columbia and with a mining concern. Some said he came back to Randall merely because he loved her athletics so, but Bricktop, with a ruffling up of his red hair would say, half-savagely: