But investigation proved that he had three clean ones in his locker and he handed one over to Evan.
“Toss it in the bottom here when you’re through with it, will you?” he asked. Evan promised and went off to get ready for his bath, encountering on the way Mr. George Washington Jell, who, hopping around on one foot, was pulling what appeared to be yards and yards of khaki trouser off the other leg.
“Excuse me,” panted Jelly, as he bumped into Evan. “Oh, that you? These fool breeches—”
“Here, sit down,” laughed Evan, “and I’ll pull them off. There you are. I really think I’d have Mrs. Crow fix those. You’ve got about a yard more than you need.”
“Or ankled,” growled Jelly, tossing the discarded trousers on to the bench. “Thanks, Kingsford. I’ll do as much for you sometime maybe.”
“I hope you won’t have to,” Evan laughed.
A half-hour later he walked back alone up the hill to Holden, and as he went he reviewed his first day at Riverport. It had been pleasant enough on the whole, he decided. Rob had awakened him at a quarter past seven and there had ensued a mad scramble into clothes and across to Academy Hall for morning prayers. Breakfast had been at eight, a jolly, leisurely meal with the big windows open and the September sunlight flooding the tables. At nine he had gone to his first class, presided over by Mr. Alden, or Old Joe as the boys called him. This was his Latin class, and at eleven came Greek, with Old Joe again presiding. Previous to that there had been a half-hour of mathematics under Mr. McGill, and in the afternoon, at three, there was English from the principal, Dr. Farren. In all, aside from physical training, which, as long as he was playing foot-ball, was not required of him, he had nineteen hours of recitations a week. This didn’t sound much, but it was evident that the work was going to be pretty stiff and the nineteen hours in class meant a good many other hours of hard preparation. Dr. Farren’s English class looked formidable, and so did the Greek, which study was entirely new to Evan.
He hadn’t seen much of Rob save at meals, for, although they attended the same classes, their seats were in each case separated by the length of the room, since Evan, as a newcomer, was forced to accept whatever unclaimed space he could find. But he was sure that he and Rob were going to get on very well together and was beginning to feel rather grateful to Frank Hopkins for bringing about the meeting which had resulted so fortunately. If Hopkins would let him on to the team, thought Evan, he would be more than willing to cry quits.
It was still only a little after half-past five when he reached his room, and so, as Rob was not there and he had it quite to himself, he decided to write a letter home. He had finished two pages of his epistle when there was a knock on the door and Malcolm Warne entered.