Dinner was the first meal, and it was a very jolly one. There were one or two introductions to be made, and these Pete performed with his usual breeziness. After that the eight members sat down, Pete thumped the bell commandingly, and the table began its official existence—an existence which endured for four college years.
By the time the roast beef and vegetables made their appearance the ice was very thoroughly broken. When the cabinet-pudding and fruit came on, good-fellowship reigned supreme, and long after the last plate had been pushed aside the members still sat about the table, as though loath to leave. It is doubtful if there was a single one of them who did not, mentally at least, thank Pete Burley for including him in his club table.
One gusty winter afternoon, four days later, Pete appeared at Allan’s room at about three o’clock. He wore his thickest sweater and a pair of woolen gloves.
“I’m going up to see the Guilds. Want to come along?”
“You know plaguey well I can’t,” said Allan, impatiently. “I’ve got all this stuff to do.” He indicated the litter of books and papers hopelessly. Somehow, of late the Midyears had seemed perilously near.
“Sorry. I’ll tell ’em you said ‘How.’ I think I’ll take a boat and row up.”
“You’ll what?” gasped Allan. “Why, it’s an easy three miles by the river.”
“That’s all right; I feel like a little exercise.”
“You’re a chump if you do,” answered the other, irritably. “How’ll you get the boat back?”
“I’ll let it stay there, maybe. Maybe I’ll come back in it after dinner. It’s easy enough to get down-stream.”