About them in other rooms, in small recesses made by the high-backed seats, were other students. There was a calling back and forth.
“Hello, Spike!”
“Stick out your head, Bender!”
“Over here, Buster—here’s room!”
“There’s Bunk now!”
You could not tell who was saying what or which, nor to whom, any more than I can. Hence the rather disjointed style of the preceding. But you know what I mean, for you must have been there yourself. If not, I beg of you to get into some such place where “good fellows,” in the truest sense of the word, meet together. For where they congregate it is always “good weather,” no matter if it snows or hails, or even if the stormy winds do blow—do blow—do blow!
But at last a measure of quietness settled down in Kelly’s, and the chatter of voices was succeeded by the clatter of knives and forks.
Then came a reaction—a time when one settled back on one’s bench, the first tearing edge of the appetite dulled. It was at this time that Tom Hatfield, leaning over to Andy, said:
“And so you are going to Yale?”
“Yes, I’ve made up my mind.”