[CHAPTER II]
SO DOES JOE DOBBINS
Myron didn’t know who “that Hoyt guy” might be, but he was sure that he or some one else had made a horrible mistake. Why, this big, good-natured, badly-dressed boy was the roughest sort of a “roughneck,” the identical type, doubtless, that his mother had spoken of so distastefully! Myron viewed him during a moment of silence, at a loss for words. The newcomer had removed his tattered hat and was now struggling with a jacket that, far too tight in the sleeves, parted reluctantly from the moist garments beneath. But it came off finally and the boy tossed it carelessly to a chair and stretched a pair of long arms luxuriously ere he sank onto it. “That train was like a furnace all the way, and the ice-water gave out at Hartford,” he said. “Well, here we are, though. What’s your name? Mine’s Dobbins; Joe Dobbins, only they generally call me ‘Whoa.’”
“My name is Foster,” replied Myron rather weakly.
“Foster, eh? That’s all right. I know a fellow at home name of Foster. Drives for Gandell and Frye. They’re the big dry-goods folks. He’s an all-right guy, too, Sam is. He and I used to be pretty thick before I came away. Were you here last year, Foster?”
“No, I—this is my first year.”
“What class?”
“Third, I expect.”