“I’m not sure,” he said cautiously, “that I feel actually better, but I’m sure I feel different. And I’d rather die of indigestion than starvation any day!” Roy looked speculatively at the dining-room door.
“If you think we can walk that far,” he suggested, “let’s get out of here.”
On the broad piazza they ran into a group of college friends of Roy and Chub’s, and the rest of the evening was hilarious enough. By ten o’clock, at which time they went back to the Slow Poke, they had enlarged their circle of acquaintances until it included most of the young folks at the hotel. The next morning they had breakfast aboard, but didn’t linger long over it, for all sorts of delightful things had been arranged. In the first place, there was tennis on the smooth clay courts, Roy and Chub engaging in doubles with a pair of ambitious friends who rather prided themselves on their prowess with racket and ball. After four sets, Roy and Chub had induced a certain amount of modesty in their opponents, having won three out of the four. Dick, meanwhile, went down in defeat before a curly-haired sub-freshman. They had luncheon at the hotel and went sailing afterward in some one’s sloop. (It was at no time apparent whose boat it was, for out of the sixteen fellows who had crowded aboard, only one hesitated to give orders, and that one only because he became seasick as soon as the yacht left her moorings.) There was more tennis after the cruise was completed, in which Dick found a foe he could triumph over. Then they went back to the neglected Slow Poke and “brushed up” for dinner.
“This social life is truly exciting,” observed Chub, strolling into the forward cabin with a whisk broom in his hand. “Has anyone a nice red tie to lend me?”
No one had, it seemed. Dick ventured the opinion that a red tie was not a proper adjunct to a dinner costume, and that precipitated a discussion that lasted until they were ready to climb the hill to the hotel, Chub asserting that with a blue serge suit nothing was more chaste and recherché than a nice bright red scarf.
“And, anyway, you wild Westerner,” he shouted from across the passage, “it’s not for the likes of you to be setting up as an authority on masculine attire. If you had your way you’d go to dinner in chaps and a sombrero!” When they had reached the table, Chub glanced over the menu with a disappointed expression, and shook his head. “That’s the trouble with these hotels,” he said. “There’s no variety. This bill’s just about the same as last night’s. The only difference is that they’ve called the soups by different names and substituted flounder—which they call sole—for bluefish.”
“The ice-cream’s different,” said Dick cheerfully. But Chub refused to be placated.
“It has another name,” he said darkly, “but you wait until you try it. It will taste the same as last night’s!”
But he recovered his equanimity as the meal progressed. He heroically denied himself a second helping of cream pie, recalling the fact that there was to be a hop that evening. “It’s hard enough for me to hop anyway,” he said, “and if I ate any more pie, I wouldn’t be able to move out of my chair.” But thanks to his self-denial Chub was able to do his full duty on the ball-room floor, and was ably assisted by Roy. Dick, however, preferred to sit on the piazza and swap yarns with the curly-haired sub-freshman, and it was not until he had been forcibly assisted through a window onto the dancing floor, that he consented to uphold the honor of the Slow Poke, as Chub eloquently put it.
The next day, the second of their stay, they gave a luncheon on board the house-boat. Dick cooked the viands and they were served under the awning on the upper deck. The menu was neither varied nor extensive, but each of the invited guests vowed that they had never tasted anything better. And, of course, it was lots of fun. Even when Dick spilled the chops all up and down the steps and had to wipe them off before he could serve them no one grumbled. In fact you’d have thought that the party preferred their chops that way! After luncheon the Slow Poke was persuaded to sidle out into the stream, and for an hour she waddled up or down the river. Every one of the guests insisted on signing articles with Captain Chub at once, and it required all of the latter’s tact and diplomacy to ward them off.