“Guess they must think it’s Zane, or Prexy,” mused Tom, grimly. He waited several seconds, and then came the gentle and somewhat sleep-simulated query:
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me—Parsons,” was the ready, if ungrammatical, answer. “Are you there, Bascome?”
“Yes, of course. I thought it was one of the profs. It’s all right, fellows—you can come out,” and, as the door opened, Tom saw several of Bascome’s friends crawling from under the bed and couch. There was a smell of cigarette smoke quite noticeable in the room.
“Whew! You fellows are going some!” commented Tom. “You can smell that all the way up to our room.”
“No! Can you really?” asked Bascome, in some alarm. “We opened all the windows, and we fan the smoke out regularly every ten minutes; don’t we, fellows?”
“Sure,” replied Merkle, one of the sportiest of sporty seniors. “It’s regular bore to think we have to sneak around this way when we want to smoke. Why, in some big colleges, I understand, they allow the undergraduates to smoke in their rooms, and even the tutors have a pipe with them.”
“Pity this isn’t a big college,” remarked Bascome, as he lighted another cigarette. “I suppose I oughtn’t to do this when I’m in training,” he went on easily, “but you won’t squeal, will you, Parsons? Have a cig. yourself?”
“No, thank you. May I see you just a moment, Bascome?”