Andy’s chums looked curiously at him. Chet’s chance remark had brought back to them the memory of the old enmity between Andy Blair and Mortimer Gaffington, the rich young “sport” of Dunmore. It was an enmity that had happily been forgotten in the joy of life at Milton. Now it loomed up again.
“That’s right, that cad Mort does hang out at New Haven,” remarked Tom. “That is, he did. But maybe they’ve fired him,” he added, hopefully.
“No such luck,” spoke Andy, ruefully. “I had a letter from my sister only the other day, and she mentioned some row that Mort had gotten into at Yale. Came within an ace of being taken out, but it was smoothed over. No, I’ll have to rub up against him if I go there.”
“Well, you don’t need to have much to do with him,” suggested Frank.
“And you can just make up your mind that I won’t,” spoke Andy. “I’ll steer clear of him from the minute I strike New Haven. But don’t let’s talk about it. Where’s that waiter, anyhow? Has he gone out to kill a fatted calf?”
“Here he comes,” announced Ben. “Get a move on there, Adolph!”
“Yah!”
“And don’t wait for my French fried potatoes to sprout, either,” added Chet.
“Yah, shure not!”
“Oh, look who’s here!” exclaimed Tom, nodding toward a newcomer. “Shoot in over here, Swipes!” he called to a tall lad, whose progress through the room was marked by friendly calls on many sides. He was a general favorite, Harry Morton by name, but seldom called anything but “Swipes,” from a habit he had of taking or “swiping” signs, and other mementoes of tradesmen about town; the said signs and insignia of business later adorning his room.