“Far be it from me to throw asparagus on a perfectly good heirloom, Standart, but I’d be awfully much obliged if you’d mislay it some time, and wreathe your features in a genial smile. Why, snakes, man, do you know that ever since I arrived here in your midst you’ve acted just like I wasn’t welcome?”
“You’re a beastly fresh guy,” exploded Alvin, “and someone’s going to hand you what you deserve before you’ve been here long! You make me sick!”
Monty grinned, and began to disrobe himself for bed. Alvin watched him gloweringly from across the room. Finally: “You must be proud of yourself,” he muttered, “being in the lower middle at your age! Yah! You’re a smart guy, aren’t you?”
“My education’s been sadly neglected, Standart,” replied Monty gently. “But I’m going to remedy that. I’m going to—” He paused, an expression of dismay came into his face, and looked toward the table. “Snakes! I plumb forgot to do any studying! What do you know about that?” He chuckled as he tossed his towel in the general direction of the rack, and turned down his bedclothes. “Bet you I make a big hit with the instructor tomorrow!”
Alvin viewed him balefully a moment. Then: “I hope you flunk everything!” he croaked triumphantly.
“Thanks for your kind wishes, Harold! Good-night!”
CHAPTER VIII
THE NEW CHUM
Monty did not, however, come such a cropper the next day as he had predicted, partly because he put in the best part of two hours before breakfast in studying, and partly because the instructors were lenient. He had Latin the first hour, and scraped through, had German at ten o’clock, and managed to look wise enough to arouse no suspicion, had mathematics at eleven, and knew more algebra than most of his companions, and finished with English at two in the afternoon, having for instructor Mr. Rumford, the assistant principal, who was usually known as “Jimmy,” and whom Monty had disrespectfully alluded to yesterday as “Old Whiskers.” Monty, however, had intended no disrespect, any more than when, in German class, he had mentally dubbed Mr. Teschner “Google Eyes.” The school in general called him “Jules,” but Monty didn’t know that, and would have liked his own invention better, anyway. It was not until after dinner that he had an opportunity to keep his promise to Leon Desmarais and climb the two flights of stairs in Trow Hall, and demand admittance at the portal of Number 32.
Leon was out, but his roommate, a stout, bespectacled youth named Granger, insisted that he should enter and await Leon’s return from dining-hall. Granger, whose first name was Seymour, and who was known as “Sim,” was a senior, and a “dig” of the first water. Even now, when the sun was shining brightly, and there was a fine, faint nip of autumn in the air, Granger had chosen to immerse himself in “Johnston’s American Politics,” with a pencil sticking from a corner of his mouth, and a pile of notes at his side. Monty marveled and envied, and accorded Sim Granger then and there a respect which never diminished. Granger apologized for going on with his work.