“So’s mine—so’s all of us. But what’s the odds? We’ve got to have a good time once in a while, eh, fellows?”
“Sure,” came the chorus.
“I can’t smoke, I’m in training,” spoke Tom, intending it to be a hint, if not to Langridge, at least to his companions.
“So’m I, you old hunk of fried tripe! Have a smoke.”
“No,” and Tom started on.
“Hold on!” cried Langridge. “I’ll go with you. I’m going to shake you fellows,” and he waved his hand to his companions. “I’m going to be virtuous and go to bed with the larks. I wonder if larks do go to bed, anyhow.”
“You mean chickens,” declared one of the others with a laugh. “Come on then, fellows, if Langridge goes back, we’ll stay and have some more fun.”
Tom was not unwilling to play the good Samaritan, so linking his arm in that of Langridge, he led him down the street. The ’varsity pitcher was not as steady on his feet as he should have been.
“I—I s’pose you’ll tell Kindlings and Lighton about me, eh, what?” he asked brokenly as he walked along.