"Wookey, suggestions?" said Stover, who added in a thundering whisper to McNab, "Always leave such things to Wookey."
The freshman busily took down the cushions from the window seat, piled up the pillows at one end before the fire, and brought up a rug.
"Thank Mr. Wookey," said Stover severely.
"Mr. Wookey, I thank you," said McNab, who sat down tailor fashion, and, staring at a book of geometry open on his lap, said: "I'm most—interested—most, very fond of Horace—reshite."
Wookey in the pink pajamas, seated in a sort of spinal bend, overwhelmed by the terrifying delight of being admitted to the company of Olympians, began directly to translate an ode of Horace.
McNab, staring at the geometry, turned a casual page, remarking from time to time severely:
"What's that!—oh, yes, h'm—quite right—free, rather free, Dink—not bad, not bad for freshman."
"Is it all right?" said Stover anxiously.
"All right."