“I wouldn’t have minded if it hadn’t been for the gestures,” said Jelly with a grin. “They made me do all sorts of fool things, like pulling the bell-rope and clasping my hands.”
“Yes, and when it came to the last they made him swing by his hands from the transom. I can see him yet, kicking his legs back and forth and gurgling ‘Curfew shall not ring to-night!’”
“Well, I hope they don’t ask me for poetry,” said Evan, “for I don’t know any.”
“Better get Malcolm to coach you,” Jelly suggested. “He knows every line of poetry that was ever written, I guess. And I have thought,”—dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper—“that he even writes it!”
“Of course he does,” said Rob. “Every Southerner reads poetry and writes it. Southerners are romantic—whatever that is.”
Presently Malcolm returned, and Jelly took his departure, declaring that he supposed he would have to study although he had quite forgotten how. At Rob’s suggestion Malcolm brought his books into 32 and the three found places about the old green-topped table and prepared their lessons. It was hard going, though, and there were many interruptions, and after a while Malcolm gathered up his books and declared that he would have to go back to his own room if he was to do any work.
“Sorry, Mal,” said Rob. “It’s my fault. I can’t seem to get my mind on lessons to-night. I’ve thought of a way to make that foot-scraper a lot better. Supposing that instead of having the brush—”
“Never mind,” laughed Malcolm. “You tell me about it to-morrow. Good night.”