There was a stereoptican lecture that night in Assembly Hall and, after they had finished supper, Dan was all for hearing it. But Alf refused to entertain the idea for a moment.
“It’s something about the Irish Lakes,” he said, “and no one cares a fig for the Irish Lakes. It’s wet enough here to-night without having to listen to a lot of drool about the Lake of Killarney and—and the others. If the chap would lecture on Irish bulls I might go. No, my soul craves excitement, Dan.”
“So does mine,” Dan laughed, “but I don’t know where to find it. We might go up to Cambridge and watch Chambers and Rand play backgammon.”
“Awful thought! No, you come over to our room, Dan, and Tom and I will entertain you. Bring little Geraldine along, if you like.”
“He’s gone off with Thompson. I’ll come over for awhile after the lecture.”
“You won’t. You’ll be drowned in the Irish Lakes. Let the old lecture go.” But Dan was obdurate. Alf called on Tom for aid.
“Tell him to come, Tom,” he said. “We’ll dance and sing and recite poetry for him, won’t we?”
“Maybe you will,” was the calm response. “I’m going over to Oxford for awhile. There’s a debate and a concert.”
Alf groaned.
“Another of your silly vaudevilles! All right, go ahead, both of you. But you’ll be sorry when you come back and find that I’ve blown up the building or assaulted a faculty from sheer boredom. You’ll wish then that you’d been kind to me.”