“We understand, don’t we?” she said happily, stepping back and catching both her cousin’s hands.
“And now,” said Olive, “Let us go down and make some tea and drink to the compact.”
CHAPTER IX
A NICE LITTLE FELLOW
Rodney Merriam and Morris Leighton walked up High Street to the Tippecanoe Club, which occupied a handsome old brick mansion that had been built by one of the Merriams who had afterward lost his money. Merriam usually went there late every afternoon to look over the newspapers, and to talk to the men who dropped in on their way home. He belonged also to the Hamilton, a much larger and gayer club that rose to the height of five stories in the circular plaza about the soldiers’ monument at the heart of the city; but he never went there, for it was noisy and full of politics. Many young men fresh from college belonged to the Tippecanoe, and Merriam liked to talk to them. He was more constant to the club than Morris, though they often went there together.
A number of men were sitting about the fireplace in the lounging-room. The lazily blazing logs furnished the only light.
A chorus of good evenings greeted the two men in unmistakable cordiality, and the best chair in the room was pushed toward Rodney Merriam.
“Mr. Merriam, Captain Pollock; and Mr. Leighton.”
A young man rose and shook hands with the new-comers. Merriam did not know most of the group by name. He had reached the age at which it seems unnecessary to tax the memory with new burdens. It was, he held, good club manners to speak to all the men you meet in a club, whether you know them or not. The youngsters at the Tippecanoe were for the greater part college graduates, just starting out in the world and retaining a jealous hold of their youth through the ties of the club.
“The Arsenal’s got to go. They’re going to sell it and build a post farther out in the country,” announced one of the group. “It’s all settled at Washington to-day.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It’s another landmark gone,” said Merriam.