"Sure. Go on with your unpacking; I'll lend a hand. I've had a bully summer."
"What's that mean?" said Stover, with a quizzical smile. "Working like a slave?"
"No, no; seeing real people. I tried being a conductor a while, got in a strike, and switched over to construction work. Got to be foreman of a gang, night shift."
"You don't mean out all night?"
"Oh, I slept in the day. You get used to it. They're a strange lot, the fellows who work while the rest of you sleep. They brushed me up a lot, taught me a lot. Wish you'd been along. You'd have got some education."
"I may do something of the sort with you next summer," said Stover quietly.
"They tell me Tough McCarthy's not coming back."
"Yes; father died."
"Too bad. Going to room alone?"
"For a while. I want to get away—think things over a bit, read some."