Several days passed without incidents worth recording here. Life at Parkinson settled down into the groove that it was to follow for the next nine months and Ira found that his studies looked far less formidable on close acquaintance than they had at first. Ira had declared that he was not a brilliant fellow at studying, and he wasn’t, but he had the gift of application and an excellent memory, which, combined, are half the battle. The courses he had feared most, Greek and French, were proving easier than English, which he had not troubled about. But third year English at Parkinson was a stiff course and Ira’s grammar school preparation had not been very thorough. Greek he took to avidly, possibly because Professor Addicks was a very sympathetic teacher and managed to make his courses interesting. Mathematics came easily to him and his other studies—he was taking nineteen hours in all—were not troublesome. On the whole, he felt himself quite able to cope with his work, and wondered if he was not in duty bound to go out and save the destinies of the football team. Of course, putting it that way he had to smile, for he couldn’t imagine himself of any more use on the gridiron than nothing at all! Only, he reflected, if it would give Captain Lyons any satisfaction to have him there, perhaps, since it seemed quite possible to play football without flunking at recitations, he ought to put in an appearance. At all events, he would, he decided, wait a few days longer. There was no hurry.
For want of a better confidant, he put the case up to Humphrey Nead one evening. Humphrey told him he was silly not to grab the chance. “I wish,” he said, “they’d beg me to come out for the football team. You couldn’t see me, for dust! You’re in luck, Rowly.”
“Rowly” was Nead’s compromise between “Say!” and “Rowland” at this time. Ira didn’t like it overmuch as a nickname, but entered no protest. He was determined to make the best of Humphrey Nead as a roommate, and during the first week was careful to make no criticisms. When, however, he did criticise he did it effectively. The occasion was just a week after that first chance meeting with Nead. The latter had formed a habit of eating his dinners in the evenings downtown in the company of various “Jimmies” and “Billies” whose last names Ira never heard, or, hearing, forgot. Usually Humphrey didn’t return to the room until nearly ten o’clock. Sometimes it was nearer midnight, although, to do him justice, those occasions were few. On this particular evening, Ira, returning at half-past seven from Mrs. Trainor’s boarding house, where he had lately become a “regular” for dinners and suppers, found Humphrey stretched out on his bed, a book face-open on his chest and a dead cigarette between the fingers of a hand that hung over the edge. He was asleep. Although both windows were open the tobacco smoke still lingered. Ira frowned thoughtfully as he hung up his cap in the closet. Then, after a moment’s indecision, he walked across to the bed and shook the sleeper awake.
“Eh? Hello!” muttered Humphrey. “Must have fallen asleep.” He yawned widely, blinked and stretched himself. “What time is it? Had your dinner?”
“I’ve had my supper,” answered Ira.
“Oh, the dickens! I was going to get you to stand me a feed.”
“Sorry. Look here, Nead, you’ll have to stop that.”
“Stop what?” asked the other blankly.
Ira pointed to the cigarette still clutched in Humphrey’s fingers. Humphrey brought his hand up and looked. A brief expression of dismay changed to a grin.