“You,” laughed Leon from the door. “So long!”
After a meager dinner Monty secured reading matter, propped the pillows behind him and strove to make the best of his incarceration. In the middle of the first story, however, Mr. Rumford was announced. Monty never would tell what transpired at that interview and so it would hardly be fair for me to tell, but the results of it were no secret. When Leon arrived about four Monty triumphantly informed him that he was not on probation, after all, that “Old Whiskers” was “a good Indian,” and no one need say otherwise in his, Monty’s, hearing, and that everything was fine and dandy. “And,” added Monty, “it’s all right about the dormitory. You mustn’t say anything about it to anyone, though, because it’s a secret. It’s to be called Morris Hall and no one is to know that I had anything to do with it. Mr. Rumford is going to talk to Charley about it right away, but he says he is sure the Whatyoucallthems—trustees—will be tickled to death.”
“Did ‘Jimmy’ say that?” asked Leon innocently.
“Well, that was the idea of it. Say, Leon, do you suppose Bonner will let me play Saturday? I’m all right, you know.”
“I don’t see why not. You don’t have to give the signals.”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Nothing, only if you did no one could hear them,” chuckled Leon. “You talk like a rusty windmill.”
“So would you if all the skin was off your throat. Where are those tablet things? Don’t you think I talk better than I did this morning?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Leon flatly. “And if you take my advice you’ll do less of it.”
“I don’t have to take your advice, though, partner. I didn’t do much talking when Jimmy and Dud were here, anyway. Jimmy did it all. He had a fool story about the fellows finding my underwear all around the shop and keeping it as souvenirs. I wish I could see Mr. Bonner.”