"Come up into my room—Dave's and mine," and over the stairs they went.
"Is this your room?" gasped Jack, forgetting his discomfort and staring all about.
"Yes, it is," said Joel; "Dave's and mine. See my tennis racket, Jack.
Isn't it prime!"—darting over to pull it out of a corner.
"I should say it was," declared Jack, fingering it lovingly as Joel thrust it into his hand with a, "Do you play?"
"A little," said Jack. He did not think it necessary to add that he was the champion player of the Common Street team on the dingy little open space given up to goats and tenement-house children.
"That's good!" exclaimed Joel, with shining eyes, and clapping him on the back; "we'll have a bout together sometime. And here are my boxing-gloves." He seized them and struck an attitude. "Come on, Jack," he cried in huge delight.
So Jack did come on, and when he emerged, why, there were the fencing foils to try; and when this was all over, and both boys sat down, flushed and panting, why, Jack's best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and his oiled hair didn't look so badly, to Joel's way of thinking.
David now ran in.
"It's time to get ready to go to Mrs. Sterling's supper," he said, with a nod to Jack.
"So it is," cried Joel, beginning to run here and there for his other shoes and clothes.