“I hope so,” murmured Dunk. “Look, there goes Ikey,” and as he spoke he pointed to a scurrying figure that shot across the street and into a shop devoted to the auctioning of furnishing goods.
“What’s he up to, I wonder?” spoke Andy.
“Oh, this is how he lays in his stock of goods that he sticks us with. He watches his chance, and buys up a lot, and then works them off on us.”
“Well, I give him credit for it,” spoke Andy, musingly. “He works hard, and he’s making good. I understand he’s in line for one of the best scholarships.”
“Then he’ll get it!” affirmed Dunk. “I never knew a fellow yet, like Ikey, who didn’t get what he set out after. I declare! it makes me ashamed, sometimes, to think of all the advantages we have, and that we don’t do any better. And you take a fellow like him, who has to work for every dollar he gets—doesn’t belong to any of the clubs—doesn’t have any of the sports—has to study at all hours to get time to sell his stuff—and he’ll pull down a prize, and we chaps——”
“Oh, can that stuff!” interrupted Andy. “We’re worse than a couple of old women to-night. Let’s be foolish for once, and we’ll feel better for it. This game is sure getting our goats.”
“I believe you. Well, if you want a chance to be foolish, here comes the crowd to stand in with.”
Down the street marched a body of Yale students, arm in arm, singing and chanting some of the latest songs, and now and then breaking into whistling.
“Gaffington’s bunch,” murmured Andy.
“Yes, but he isn’t with ’em,” added Dunk. “Slip in here until they get past,” and Dunk pulled his chum by the arm as they came opposite a dark hallway.