“Oh, you’ll need a couple of pairs,” laughed Stowell, “one for week-days and one for Sundays.”
“Of course I will. A chap needs something nice for the theater. Where does ‘Mittens’ hang out?”
“Don’t know, I’m sure. His name’s Shoot or Shult; you can find him in the catalogue.”
“I will. And, say, maybe he sells blue socks, too, eh? If the cooperative hears of it they’ll have the law on him. Did you ask him if he had a license?”
“No.” Stowell looked down at Reeves thoughtfully.
Then he said slowly, “Now, look here, ‘Mittens,’ as you call him, is all right. So don’t go to having fun with him, hear?”
“Not me,” grinned “Chick.”
“Oh, no, you naturally wouldn’t,” growled Stowell. “But if you do I’ll break your head for you.”
Stowell had quite forgotten his strange visitor of the day before when, on Tuesday morning, he met him on the steps of University. Shult’s clothes looked more ill fitting than before, and it cost Stowell, who was accompanied by two extremely select members of his class, somewhat of an effort to stop and speak to him.
“Hello, Shult,” he said, “how are you getting along?”