“I should think it would be fun,” said Poke vaguely. “Are you going home in the summer?”
Jim shook his head. “I don’t know. You see, we’ve rented our house. We might go back for a little while, I suppose. I dare say it’s pretty hot here in summer.”
“I’ll bet it is!” said Gil. “It was so hot last spring at commencement that we nearly died. Had to dress up in our best togs, you know, and make a hit with our relatives.”
“And other fellows’ relatives,” growled Poke. “I nearly danced my poor little heart out that night, Gil. It was my fatal fascination, Jim. The girls simply had to have a dance with me!”
“Dance!” scoffed Gil. “You don’t call what you do dancing, do you?”
“I certainly do,” replied Poke with dignity. “It is the poetry of motion. Gil is envious,” he explained, turning to Jim. “He dances like a trained bear on the end of a chain. Ever see one? Like this.” And Poke began to revolve around and around on the landing in ludicrous imitation of a bear. Even Gil had to laugh at the performance. Then Poke declared that he had to have a drink of water and they sauntered over to Memorial, meeting a few late diners on the way. After that it was almost time to think of dressing for the game, and they returned to the gymnasium, loitered awhile on the steps and then descended to the locker-room and leisurely got into their togs.