“Playing Rowell. Walking for the belt, and I've got it too,” laughed Jack, pointing to an old gilt chandelier chain hanging on the bedpost.
“You little noodle, you'd better revolve into bed before you lose your head entirely. I never saw such a fellow for taking himself off his legs.”
“Well, if I didn't exercise, do you suppose I should be able to do that—or that?” cried Jack, turning a somersault and striking a fine attitude as he came up, flattering himself that he was the model of a youthful athlete.
“You look more like a clothes-pin than a Hercules,” was the crushing reply of this unsympathetic brother, and Jack meekly retired with a bad headache.
“I don't do such silly things now: I'm as broad across the shoulders as you are, and twice as strong on my pins, thanks to my gymnastics. Bet you a cent I'll be dressed first, though you have got the start,” said Jack, knowing that Frank always had a protracted wrestle with his collar-buttons, which gave his adversary a great advantage over him.
“Done!” answered Frank, and at it they went. A wild scramble was heard in Jack's room, and a steady tramp in the other as Frank worked away at the stiff collar and the unaccommodating button till every finger ached. A clashing of boots followed, while Jack whistled “Polly Hopkins,” and Frank declaimed in his deepest voice,
“Arma virumque cano, Trojae qui primus ab oris Italiam, fato profugus, Laviniaque venit litora.”
Hair-brushes came next, and here Frank got ahead, for Jack's thick crop would stand straight up on the crown, and only a good wetting and a steady brush would make it lie down.
“Play away, No. 2,” called out Frank as he put on his vest, while Jack was still at it with a pair of the stiffest brushes procurable for money.
“Hold hard, No. 11, and don't forget your teeth,” answered Jack, who had done his.