“I was trying to get my tie straight,” growled Sid, as he fastened his low cut vest, for he was in his evening clothes.
“Get out, you musty old misogynist!” exploded Phil, following Tom into the room. “We know what you were doing, all right. You wanted to see if you were good-looking enough, so that you could dance with Mabel all the evening.”
Sid looked around for something to throw at his tormenting roommates, but nothing was handy. Besides, he might crack the stiff bosom of his shirt, the snowy expanse of which reflected back the glow of the incandescent light.
“If you fellows are going to the racket, it’s about time you togged up,” went on Sid, as he carefully took a seat in a chair. He did not sink luxuriously onto the sofa this time, for fear of “mussing himself up,” as Holly Cross would have said.
“Oh, we’ll be ready in jig time!” cried Phil, throwing his coat on one chair, his vest on another, and, almost before the garments had landed in “artistic confusion,” he was changing his shoes.
“We went to a football meeting,” explained Tom, as he shed his ordinary raiment and proceeded to “tog up.”
“Anything doing?” asked Sid, as he manicured his nails.
“Oh, for the love of tripe! Look at him!” cried Phil, with his head half way through a clean shirt. “Say, you’d think he was going to a coming-out party, instead of to a Fairview frat. dance. Oh, Tom, is my back hair on straight?” and Phil, who had uttered the last in a shrill falsetto voice, tried to look at the after-portion of his shock of football hair.
“Say, when you fellows know how to act like gentlemen instead of like a bunch of rough-necks, I’ll talk to you,” spoke Sid, with dignity. “I asked you a question, Tom.”