“Say, how come you’ve been snooping through my chiffonier? Hang it, Bert, you’ve got a cheek!”
“Wait a minute! Did you or didn’t you ask me to get you a handkerchief one day and drop it out the window to you? And was or wasn’t said handkerchief in said top drawer of said—”
“Oh, shut up,” said Chick, grinning. “All right, old son. Say no more. But trust you to see the fags! As to getting rid of them, that would be rotten extravagance, Bert. No, but I’ll stick ’em out of sight where I won’t see ’em. How’ll that do? But, listen. Will you shoot some pool, or won’t you, you poor fish?”
“Won’t,” answered Bert. “That is, I will if you’ll play in a respectable place, but I don’t like the atmosphere of Rooney’s—”
“Mooney’s.”
“Looney’s, then. And I’m not referring entirely to the tobacco smoke. A lot of the gentlemen who frequent that dive are the sort that my Sunday school teacher expressly warned me against, Chick.”
“Oh, cut out the comedy stuff,” growled the older boy. “Come on, won’t you? You don’t have to pay any attention to the others. I’ll give you a handicap of—”
“No, thanks, old man, I really had rather not. Anyway, I’ve got some math here that will stand an hour’s work.”
“Do it later. Great Scott, don’t you know this is Saturday night?”
“Sure, but I sort of feel in the mood for math, Chick. A—a kind of mental alertness possesses me, and although—”