“Forget your old business, Tommy,” said Hal.
“Don’t let him sneak,” said Pete. “We’re going to open a can of corn in a minute.”
“That’s all very well,” Tommy protested, “but I’ve got things to do. You lazy chaps, who never study——”
Dismal groans from the opposition.
“Can afford to loaf; but I want to tell you——”
“Of course you do, Tommy,” Allan interrupted, soothingly, “but we don’t want you to. Be calm, precious youth; the Purp” (college slang for the Purple) “will come out just the same, whether you continue to adorn that desk for another ten minutes or not.”
“Why don’t you fellows let a couple of weeks go by without putting out a paper?” asked Pete. “No one would notice it, and think what a high old time you could all have being useful for once.”
“Wish we could,” sighed Tommy.
“Tommy, you’re a wicked liar!” said Hal. “You don’t wish anything of the sort. If you missed an issue of that old sheet, you’d commit suicide in some awful manner; maybe you’d come down here and die of smells.”
“If you’d only put something in it,” said Pete, “something a fellow could read and enjoy—a murder now and then, or a lynching. Couldn’t you run a story with lots of blood? It’s such a dismal paper, Tommy.”