It was Philip’s turn to nod, and, having done so, he disappeared from the window and Joe went, not too hurriedly, through the gate and in at the door. Philip awaited him, as usual, at the top of the stairway. Each ventured a doubtful and fleeting grin as they met, and then Philip closed the door of the little room and Joe flung himself on the bright-hued afghan that covered the bed by day. Having landed there, he reflected that he had meant to comport himself somewhat haughtily while making it clear to his host that only a matter of extraordinary importance would have brought him. But it was too late now. He glanced at the violin on the chair and then at the music rack with the bow lying along the ledge.
“Practicing?” he asked.
Philip nodded and Joe continued mercilessly. “Sort of late, ain’t you?” he inquired. Philip’s gaze wandered evasively.
“I got started kind of late,” he murmured. Then, realizing that the statement was not quite the truth, he amended it. “There wasn’t much else to do,” he said.
Joe stifled a triumphant chuckle. “Say,” he substituted, “did you tell Charley Nagel about—about the housewarming?”
“Kind of,” answered Philip. “I told him we were going to ask some of the fellows out to the camp Saturday.”
“Gee! Didn’t you know he’d go and tell Bull and that bunch?”
“Sure! I wanted him to,” replied the other stoutly. “After the way those fellows acted—”
“Well, you went and made a mess of it,” said Joe sternly. “Bull and his crowd are going out there to-night. They’re going to bust the door in and use our things and have a feed!”
“Wha-a-t! How do you know?”