“I’ll move in on Monday if that’s all right for you.”
“Monday be hanged! What’s the matter with to-day? We can find a bed in ten minutes and get them to send it right over.”
But Phillip held out for Monday. “It will be mighty handy for my meals,” he said. “I have to walk a pretty good way as it is now.”
“Where are you eating? North said you’d left your table at The Inn.”
“Yes, I had to. I’m eating at Randall.”
Chester whistled. “Well, you are going the whole hog, aren’t you? Do you like it?”
“Yes; it’s just what I want. I can pay as little or as much as I wish to.”
Chester grinned. “I never tried Randall,” he said. “I’ll go to dinner with you some time. Well, come on and let’s go down to Holmes Field and watch the hockey. Your friend Kingsford’s playing coverpoint on the freshman team and just tearing holes in the ice. It’s beautiful to see him. I think he’s smashed everything except his left leg so far. How are you coming with your exams?”
The winter term was two weeks old and the mid-years were upon them in full force. Life was very serious, and the popular subjects of conversation were seminars and flunks. Phillip was passing through the ordeal very well, while Chester, although he spoke vaguely on every possible occasion of having “a fighting chance” and of “never saying die,” was forced to acknowledge to himself that the probabilities were strongly in favour of his passing with disgustingly commonplace success.
Kingsford was not among the freshman players that afternoon—Chester said he supposed he had finally killed himself—and after standing about in the snow for nearly an hour watching the ’varsity practice, the two walked back to the Union and had five o’clock tea. Phillip found a letter for him in the rack and with a frown recognized John’s writing. He slipped it into his pocket and did not open it until he was in his room.