Mr. Ames grinned.
“Funny how the fellows like to call us by diminutive forms of our first names here, isn’t it?” he asked. “Last year—you remember, Dorr, I guess?—Putnam, who graduated last spring, blurted out my pet name in class room. I had called him down for not knowing his lesson. ‘Mr. Bobby,’ he said earnestly, ‘I studied two hours on that last night, sir!’”
The boys laughed.
“It’s only the ones the fellows like,” said Phin, “that get pet names.”
“Thank you,” laughed Mr. Ames. “I feel better.”
“It’s so, sir,” protested Phin earnestly. “You never heard any of us call Mr. Foote ‘Sammy,’ sir.”
“Come, come, Dorr, that’s treason,” said the instructor, shaking his head smilingly. “You’re a bit hard, you chaps, on Mr. Foote.” Phin made no answer.
“By the way,” asked Mr. Ames, “I meant to ask after your—after Mrs. Freer. How is she getting along?”
“Very nicely, sir, thank you. It isn’t a secret any longer; about her being my mother, I mean. It was her idea, sir; she got it into her head that the fellows would think it funny if they knew she earned money by dressmaking.”
“She was mistaken,” answered Mr. Ames quietly. “I don’t think we have many snobs here, do you, Dana?”