“Oh, you’re plumb woozy!” exclaimed the latter. Nevertheless, he consented to tell again of the remarkable events which had transpired during his absence, and Pete’s melancholy disappeared. It was a peculiar feature of it that during the following week it possessed him only occasionally. But when it did, he seemed in the uttermost depths of melancholy—a melancholy quite as mysterious and remarkable to his friends as the celerity with which he recovered on each occasion. Hal declared over and over that he was “woozy”—a term of doubtful significance, but quite satisfying to the user—and Tommy hinted at overstudy. This was among themselves. When Pete was present, they merely called him a fool, and let it go at that.
It was the first day of December that witnessed the advent upon the scene of a new character in our story. A wagon stopped in front of Mrs. Purdy’s in the afternoon and an expressman deposited a small box inside Allan’s door. He found it there when he returned from his last recitation. It had slats nailed across the top, and from its dark recesses came strange sounds. Allan stared. The sounds resolved themselves into the plaintive mewings of a kitten, and Allan recollected his request to his mother—a request long since forgotten by him, but evidently well remembered by her. He tore off a couple of the slats and lifted out a six-weeks-old kitten.
It was a pathetic little white object, with two black spots on its back and weak-looking pale blue eyes which blinked inquiringly at him. Its mouth opened, and the appealing cry was repeated. Allan set it down and raced for the kitchen. When he returned, he carried a huge bowl of milk.
The kitten was roaming disconsolately about the floor, but at sight of the milk trotted up, and apparently strove to commit suicide by overeating—an intention frustrated by Allan, who removed the bowl finally and took the kitten into his lap in front of the fire. It seemed to have suddenly grown to twice its size, and instead of the heart-rending mews, Allan heard a faint but enthusiastic purring as the poor little object curled itself up in his arm and blinked its gratitude. Presently it went fast asleep and, rather than disturb it, Allan sat there for almost an hour, with his books just out of reach.
That evening they named it. Tommy wanted something patriotic: Erskine, he thought, was just the thing. Hal showed the possession of an unsuspected streak of sentiment and clamored for Hortense. Allan, recollecting the fact that the mother’s name was Edith Cinnamon, was in favor of calling the offspring Clove or Nutmeg. But Pete, who had been gravely examining the kitten at arm’s length, took his pipe from between his lips, and with the stem tapped the two black spots on its back.
“Two Spot,” he said, with finality.
Two Spot it was. And a few days later neither of the others would have changed the name for any consideration, since, as Tommy sadly expressed it, “Poor old Pete had named her.”
That first day of December was memorable not only for the arrival of Two Spot, but for the first gathering at Pete’s club table. Of those beside our friends who composed the table, it is not necessary to speak at any length.
Poor we already know very slightly. Wolcott, Cooper, Van Sciver, and Maitland were average fellows who had gained prestige for one reason or another, among their companions. It was a fact that Pete had succeeded in gathering together what might have been called the pick of the freshman class. That he had been able to do so was partly because of his tact and powers of persuasion and partly because freshman club tables were so seldom formed at Erskine that the project had the flavor of the unusual.