“Sure,” Ted answered amidst laughter.
“I apologize,” said Tommy. “Just the same—” But Bert’s elbow colliding with his ribs interrupted his qualifying addenda.
“All right,” agreed Chick, restored to better humor. “He isn’t fat. He’s merely plump.”
Tommy looked doubtful for a moment, but Coles pulled a box of apples from under a bed and the doubt vanished. During the subsequent half-hour Tommy was much too busy to indulge in what he termed constructive criticism. No one counted the number of Northern Spies he demolished, but it was considerable. Conversation proceeded briskly but somewhat unintelligibly. In the middle of the feast “Dutch” Kruger arrived, bearing a fat black case, and was hailed tumultuously. He devoured two apples hastily, urged on by impatient watchers, and would have started a third. But Jim Galvin deftly took the apple away from him and substituted the black case. Dutch’s protests were drowned. Good-naturedly he produced a shining saxophone.
“‘Football Blues,’ Dutch!”
“Aye! Attaboy, Dutch! I want to sing!”
“What time is it?” asked Dutch anxiously.
“Only nine. Lots of time, boy. Give us ‘The Football Blues.’”
Dutch grinned, nestled the mouthpiece against his lips and blew. At the same time he began to pat the floor with his feet and sway from his hips. The saxophone nodded and curveted. Most of the assemblage broke into song, tapping the floor, too, swaying as Dutch swayed. Tommy, a large red apple in one hand, his eyes staring fixedly, hypnotically at the musician, heaved his plump shoulders ludicrously. [From across the hall came an agonized wail of “Cut that out!”] which, however, failed to make itself heard in Number 5. Up and down the corridor doors were set open and in more than one room a toiler at his books gave over toiling for the while and pursed his lips.
