“Football? Oh—well, maybe; football isn’t a bad game, after all. But— Here they are. O Tommy! Tommy Sweet!”
Tommy and Hal, attracted by Pete’s bellow, turned and joined them.
“Thought we’d never get here,” said Tommy, hoarsely. “Hal got mixed up with an ice-cream freezer and ate six saucerfuls before I could drag him away.”
“That’s so,” Hal confessed. “That’s the trouble with breaking training; things taste so good and it’s so jolly nice to be able to eat all you want to. I expect to be fine and sick to-night.”
“You have every right to,” said Allan. “When a little old freshman gets taken onto the varsity and makes a home run in the ninth inning, just when it’s needed, and lets in three men——”
“Oh, shut up! And come on up to the room and eat. We can hear the music finely from the windows. I’ve got some nice cold ginger ale up there, and Mr. and Mrs. Guild ought to be along about now. Come on.”
“Well, I never took much of a shine to ginger ale,” said Pete, drawing his big form erect; “the fizzy stuff always goes up my nose. But I’ll have some, for it sure is hot to-night.”
“We’ll drink Tommy’s health,” said Hal, as they moved across the turf under the swaying lanterns, “and we’ll get him to sing us ‘A Health to King Charles’ in his nice new voice.”
“Toast yourselves,” growled Tommy, hoarsely.