“That,” he announced finally, “was made by one of the best tailors in New York.”
Gil grunted again. “We wouldn’t wear a thing like that in Providence,” he said.
Poke laughed rudely as he hung the coat up. “Providence! I believe you, Gil! Providence never saw anything like that.”
“That’s no joke,” replied the other. “Get a move on, Poke, I’m hungry.”
“All right. Put that in the drawer for me, will you? No, the table drawer, you idiot! Where’s my hat? Come on now. I could eat an ox!”
They closed the door of Number 12 behind them, scuttled down a flight of well-worn stairs, and emerged on the granite steps of Weston Hall. They looked along the fronts of the buildings, but not a soul was in sight. Gil chuckled.
“Bet you we’re the first fellows back, Poke.”
“Sure. They won’t begin to get here until that two-twenty train.”
They turned to the right, passed between Weston and Rogers, traversed a few rods of turf, and took a path leading downwards through a grove of maples and beeches. The path turned and twisted to accommodate itself to the descent. Gil walked ahead, hat in hand, since it was close and warm here in the woods, and Poke lounged along behind, hands in pockets and his merry, good-humored face alight with anticipation of the good things awaiting him at Reddy’s lunch counter. Poke’s real name was Perry Oldham Kirkland Endicott, and the nickname had been the natural result of the first view of the initials on the end of his suitcase. In age he was sixteen, one year his companion’s junior. He was well set-up, with a good pair of shoulders and a depth of chest that told of athletic training. He had brown hair and brown eyes, a good-looking sunburned face, and a general air of care-free jollity. Like Gil Benton, Poke was a member of the Upper Middle Class, and consequently had two more years to spend at Crofton.
Gilbert Benton, seventeen years old, was a good two inches taller than his chum, and somewhat slimmer. But the slimness showed wiry muscles and a healthy body. Gil’s hair was darker than Poke’s, and his eyes were gray. His face spoke of determination and fearlessness. Seeing the two boys, you would have said that Gil was the sort to lead bravely a forlorn hope, and Poke the sort to shrug his shoulders, laugh—and follow. Gil’s home was in Providence, Rhode Island, and Poke’s in New York City. The latter had taken an early train and Gil had joined him at Providence, and the two had reached the station at Crofton well before noon. To arrive at school early and get settled before their fellows arrived had struck them as something of a lark.