“You make me tired! Can’t a fellow be decent to a new boy, I’d like to know? I’ve been cheering him up a bit, that’s all. Found him terribly down in the dumps, poor chap. You Upper Class fellows never think of trying to make things a bit easier for new boys.” Jonesie mingled regret with indignation. Carpenter blinked. “Seems to me you fellows ought to remember how you felt yourselves when you struck school and didn’t know anyone! It—it’s mighty lonesome business, Carpenter!”
“Is that so, Jonesie? Well, you’d better write to the Weekly about it. A fat lot of comforting you were doing, I’ll bet!” But after Jonesie had gone on, Carpenter glanced inquiringly at Gus Peasley, who occupied the seat with him. “Maybe Jonesie is right about it, too,” said Carpenter. “I dare say it would be a decent thing if some of us Upper Classmen sort of looked after the new boys a little. I remember myself——”
“Piffle!” This was Peasley, grinning. “Jonesie doesn’t care a hang whether a new boy is homesick! Bet you a dollar, Billy, he’s been up to some more of his deviltry!”
“Think so?” asked Carpenter doubtfully. “Maybe. I wouldn’t trust him. Just the same, Gus, there’s something in what he said.”
Peasley yawned as he got up to rescue his suitcase from the rack above.
“Jonesie could talk tears out of a brick, Billy,” he replied. “He’s the biggest little faker in school. Some day, if he doesn’t get hung first, he’ll be President!”
II
The Fall Term was three days old when James Andrew Wigman availed himself of Jonesie’s invitation. Jonesie returned to his room that afternoon in a condition of utter boredom. It had rained all day, there was no promise of clearing, and Jonesie, unfortunately susceptible to weather conditions, was as near having a case of the blues as is possible for a healthy boy of fourteen. After slamming the door and skimming his wet cap across the study in the general direction of the window seat he thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and stared disgustedly at his roommate. “Sparrow” Bowles, deep in the pages of a paper-covered romance, never even turned his head. Sparrow was fifteen, long, lank, dark-complexioned and lazy. Fate had thrown them together at the commencement of their Junior Year and Jonesie had never yet quite forgiven Fate. Finally, discovering that his scowling regard was having no impression, he observed challengingly:
“Crazy old bookworm!”