“Isn’t it a sad case?” continued Chub. “Such a promising youth as he was! He was always promising—and never doing it. And so young, too!”
“Say, dry up a minute, you fellows,” Roy begged.
“He may get over it, though,” observed Dick, thoughtfully. But Chub shook his head.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Just look at his eyes; see that baleful glare, Dick? That’s what tells the story, the baleful glare; when you develop the baleful glare you are quite incurable. And see his lips work. He’s muttering to himself. That’s a frightfully bad sign, Dick. Pretty soon he will gibber, and when—”
[“‘What is the name of the camp?’”]
“Dry up, Chub,” commanded Roy. “Now listen. Let’s get a name the way the soap and biscuit people do.”
“A romantic idea,” murmured Chub, politely.