“Oh, you, Andy Blair!”
“Happy New Year!”
Thus was he greeted and thus he greeted in turn. Then, amid laughter and talk, and the rattle of knives and forks, acquaintanceship and friendship were renewed. Andy was beginning to feel like a seasoned Yale man now.
The studies of the second term were of increasing difficulty, and Andy and Dunk found they had to buckle down to steady work. But they had counted on this.
Still they found time for fun and jollity and spent many a pleasant evening in company with their other friends. Once or twice Mortimer and his cronies tried to get Dunk to spend the night with them, but he refused; or, if he did go, he took Andy with him, and the two always came home early, and with clear heads.
“They’re a pair of quitters!” said Len Scott, in disgust, after one occasion of this kind. “What do you want to bother with ’em for, Mort?”
“That’s what I say,” added Clarence Boyle.
“Oh, well, I may have my reasons,” returned Mortimer, loftily. “Dunk would be a good sort if he wasn’t tied fast to Andy. I can’t get along with him, though.”
“Me either,” added Len. “He’s too goody-goody.” Which was somewhat unjust to Andy.
The winter slowly wore on. Now and then there would be another of the mysterious robberies, and on nearly every occasion the article taken was of considerable value—jewelry, sporting trophies or expensive books. There was suspicion of many persons, but not enough to warrant an arrest.