“Might as well wish for grand opera,” responded Leon. “What can we do, fellows? I’ve got it now, too.”
“Why do anything?” asked Jimmy. “I’m quite comfortable here. You chaps probably ate something for supper that doesn’t agree with you. I know that feeling of unrest perfectly.” He laid a hand tenderly on his stomach. Monty snorted with disdain.
“Bet you your soul and your stomach are in the same place, Jimmy,” he said. “If I was at home I—I’d get on a bronc and run him about ten miles across country. I feel—” Monty stopped.
“Proceed, dearie,” prompted Jimmy. “Just what are your symptoms? Tell Uncle James.”
“I feel like it would do me a heap of good to take that closet door off its hinges and slide downstairs on it.”
“Why, that’s an innocent diversion,” said Jimmy. “Go to it, Monty!”
“Come along?” asked Monty hopefully.
“N-no. No, I think not, my impetuous friend. You see, my folks rather expect me to stay here until June. It would be an awful disappointment to them if I appeared, bag and baggage, back at the old home in October. Think of something—something—er—more sub-tile.”
“How about going down and doing something to Jimmy?”
“‘Something’ is so vague. What, for instance? Mind you, I’m for it, because Jimmy and I don’t love each other just now. Jimmy said things about a comp of mine that no gentleman should say to another. Go on, Monty. You interest me strangely.”