Toby Tucker, a rather more presentable citizen than the one who had received Orson Crowell in Number 22 Whitson last evening, was one of the first to claim sanctuary in the Hyacinth. This was not due to his own enterprise so much as to the fact that a slightly bigger youth had taken him by the shoulders and, using him as a battering-ram, had cleaved a path from platform to vestibule. Toby did not ordinarily travel in parlor cars, but this morning his objections had been overruled, and presently he found himself, somewhat dishevelled and out of breath, seated in a revolving chair upholstered in uncomfortably scratchy velvet with an ancient yellow valise on his knees.
“Put that thing down,” laughed the occupant of the next chair, pushing his own more modern suit-case out of the aisle. “Gee, that was a riot, wasn’t it? Here we go!” The train started and Toby, not a little excited, saw the station move past the broad window, caught a final fleeting glimpse of the village and then found the river beneath them. A minute later the express roared disdainfully through Greenburg and set off in earnest for New Haven and New York. “Two whole weeks of freedom!” exulted his companion. “No more Latin, no more math, no more English comp—”
“And no more French!” added Toby feelingly. “And no more clothes to clean, either. I guess it will take me more than a week to get rid of the smell of benzine. I stayed up until after ten last night, Arnold. I wanted to press my own things, but I was too tired. Does this suit look very bad?”
“Bad? No, it looks corking,” replied Arnold Deering. “It gets me how you can buy a suit of clothes for about fifteen dollars and have it look bully, when I have to pay twenty-five and then look like the dickens. Look at these togs, will you? You’d think I’d had them two or three years!”
“When a fellow hangs his clothes on the floor the way you do,” laughed Toby, “he shouldn’t expect them to look very nice. Why didn’t you bring that up yesterday and let me go over it?”
“Because I knew you had more than you could do, T. Tucker. Besides, you never let me pay you, you chump.”
“Well, if you’re going to wear your things all mussed up you can pay me all you want to. Say, how much does this cost?”
“What?”
“Why, this parlor car business?”
“Oh, about a half. It’s my treat, like I’ve told you once.”