“They sell football togs in the village,” suggested the other with ominous calm.
“I can’t afford to get them.”
“You can’t? Why can’t you?”
“Because I haven’t the money.”
A couple of smaller boys had paused near-by and Brooks, seeing them, took Cal’s arm and drew him down the steps and a little way along the East House path.
“Look here, Boland, is that straight?” he asked. “Can’t you afford three or four dollars for football togs?”
“No, I can’t, Brooks. I oughtn’t to. I—we ain’t got much money, you see.” Brooks observed him, frowning intently. At last he concluded that Cal was speaking the truth and not merely exaggerating his poverty in order to escape practice.
“That’s different,” he said. “You come with me.”
Wondering what was going to befall him now, Cal accompanied the other across the bridge and along the path to East House. He had never been there before. East House was newer than West and larger. It accommodated fourteen fellows to West House’s eight. On the square porch Cal paused but Brooks beckoned him in and led the way up the stairs and into a nicely furnished room on the second floor. There were lots of pictures on the walls, a good deal of comfortable mission furniture with leather upholstery, and several Oriental rugs on the hardwood floor. Altogether the room was a revelation to Cal of what a school study might be if the occupant possessed both money and good taste.
“Sit down, won’t you?” said Brooks, pushing a deep-seated chair forward. Cal seated himself, placed his cloth cap over one knee and smoothed it down there, feeling somewhat embarrassed and ill at ease. Brooks went to a closet and in a moment was back with an armful of togs.