“Spoiled? What do you mean? Just because I asked you——”
“You’re one of those fellows who expect others to do things for ’em, and get away with it. Wish I knew the secret. But it isn’t good for you, Dick. You must learn to run your own errands, and whitewash your own fences. Any time you break a leg, I’ll fetch and carry for you, but while you’re able to get about—nothing doing! In fact, seeing that I’m an older resident of this place, I’m not certain you shouldn’t be fagging for me!”
“Oh, go to the dickens,” muttered Dick. “You make me tired.” Then, after a moment, he added: “Maybe that was cheeky, Stan. I’m sorry. Guess I’ve had it too easy.”
“That’s all right, son. It’s just as well to know where we stand, though. Any other little thing I can do for you?”
“Yes, you can close your silly mouth,” was the answer.
By Saturday Dick felt almost like an old boy. His courses promised to be only mildly difficult, and the instructors seemed a very decent lot, notably “Old Addicks” who knew so much of ancient languages that he looked like an elderly, benignant Greek philosopher, and Mr. McCreedy, who taught mathematics. Through Stanley he met a great many of the fellows, and he picked up a few acquaintances himself. Of these latter, one was “Rusty” Crozier. He was a Fourth Class fellow who preferred to live in the town, and occupied two comfortable rooms in a house on Maple Street, just below the school. He was a jolly, light-hearted chap with a perpetual smile and hair of that peculiar shade of red that we associate with rusted iron: hence his nick-name. Dick met him in classroom. “Rusty” borrowed Dick’s fountain pen for a minute. After class they came together in the corridor and walked a little way along The Front. That began it. When Dick asked Stanley if he knew Crozier, Stanley nodded.
“Everyone knows Rusty,” he said. “But if you want to tread the straight and narrow, Dick, keep away from him.”
“What do you mean? Isn’t he—all right?”
“Oh, yes, Rusty’s all right. That is, there’s nothing vicious about him. In fact, he’s a very decent, very clean fellow. But he’s gifted with a talent for discovering trouble. And a talent for squirming out of it! If he wasn’t he’d have left Parkinson long ago. I’d say that Rusty’s trouble was an over-developed sense of humor.”
“I rather liked him,” mused Dick.