“Mind if I sit here?” asked Jonesie most politely. “Sorry to bother you, but everything’s pretty well filled up.”
“Not—not at all!” stammered the other boy. He tugged frantically at a fat suitcase bearing the inscription “J. A. W.” on the end and squeezed toward the window. Jonesie murmured his thanks and seated himself with a sigh, folding his arms and staring ahead of him with a thoughtful frown. The train swayed onward in a cloud of gray dust. After a moment the original occupant of the seat took courage and studied his neighbor out of the corners of his eyes. He liked what he saw and wondered sympathetically what weighty care was clouding the brow under the stunning straw. At that moment Jonesie unclasped his arms and began to study a purple blister at the base of the second finger on his right palm. The other boy, interested, looked, too. It was a most promising blister. He speculated as to the cause of it and considered its future treatment rather enviously. And at that moment the proud possessor of the blister looked up and caught his glance embarrassingly.
“Played thirty-six holes yesterday,” said Jonesie. “Hadn’t golfed before all summer.” He frowned at the blister, wiggling his finger experimentally. “Beastly bother,” he added disgustedly.
“Yes,” agreed the other, almost with enthusiasm. The sympathy seemed to draw Jonesie’s attention to his companion for the first time and he turned and shot a brief and speculative glance at him. Then,
“Randall’s?” he inquired.
“Yes, I—I’m just entering.”
“Ah!” Jonesie beamed with a sudden friendly interest. “That’s fine. Lower Middle, I suppose?”
“N-no, just Junior,” returned the other apologetically.