CHAPTER VII
FIRST PRACTICE
It’s remarkable how different things look in the morning! A chap may go to bed the night before in the seventh subway of despair and wake up in the morning feeling quite cheerful and contented. And this is especially true if the sun happens to be shining and a little frosty, nippy breeze is blowing in at the window and the faint odor of coffee and other delectable things floats in with the breeze. As Toby’s room was over the kitchen, which occupied the basement of Whitson, he was quite frequently treated to a presentment of what was to happen in commons. This morning, sitting on the edge of his bed, and shivering a little as the playful zephyrs caressed his legs, he sniffed knowingly and decided that there was an unmistakably choppy bouquet to the fragrance arising from the kitchen windows. And he was pleased, because he was especially fond of lamb chops. Also, he was particularly hungry to-day, having eaten scantily of supper because—
That because brought back to memory his overnight’s grievance. But this morning it seemed absurdly trifling. He had, he decided, made a silly ass of himself, and he wondered what on earth had got into him! He would find Arnold the very first thing and show him that he was sorry. Of course Arnold liked Frank Lamson. Why shouldn’t he, since they had known each other several years? Besides, Frank, after all, wasn’t such a bad chap probably—if you knew him well! Meanwhile there was a bath to be taken, and one had to do a lot of hustling to get a bath in before breakfast for the reason that the bathing facilities in Whitson were archaic and there were some twelve boys for each tub. This knowledge spurred Toby to action and he jumped up and closed the window with a bang, seized the gorgeous new crimson dressing-gown that his mother had given him for Christmas and, struggling hurriedly into it, dashed down the hall. For once promptness earned its reward. Only Stillwell and Framer were ahead of him and Toby was back in his room in five minutes, glowing and happy and hungry.
When, on his way downstairs, he knocked at the door of Number 12 and was invited to enter, he found only Homer Wilkins within. Homer was still very incompletely attired and very sleepy looking, and he informed Toby with a prodigious yawn, that Arn had gone on down. “He’s a regular Little Brighteyes,” he complained. “No worm would have half a chance with Arn. What’s the weather like, Toby?”
“Great! You’d better hustle if you want any breakfast.”
“I don’t expect any,” replied Homer sadly. “I haven’t had a square meal in the morning since I’ve been here. Everything’s sold out when I get down. They ought to have a lunch-wagon for fellows—”
But Toby didn’t hear the rest. Arnold was busily adorning his plate of oatmeal with much cream and sugar when Toby reached the table. Only four others were on hand so far.
“Morning,” greeted Toby as he sat down and pulled his napkin out of its numbered ring.
“Hello, Tucker!” “Morning, Toby!” “Greetings!” “Shove that sugar-bowl along this way, will you?”