With this thought Andy consoled himself, but he had an uneasy feeling for all that. The students came trooping back, after having disposed of Mortimer and his crowd.
“You missed the best part of the fun,” said Chet to Andy. “Those fellows thought a cyclone struck them when we tossed ’em into the car. They don’t know yet whether they’re going or coming back,” and he laughed, his mates joining in.
“Yes?” asked Andy, non-committally.
“What’s up?” asked Tom, curiously. “You don’t act as though it had any flavor for you. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, well—nothing,” said Andy. “Come on, let’s get back to the fire, and have a last song. Then I’m going to pack. I want to leave on that early train in the morning.”
“Same here. Come on, boys. Whoop her up once more for Old Milton, and then we’ll say good-bye.”
“I know what ails Andy,” spoke Tom in a low tone to Frank, walking along arm in arm with him.
“It’s about that fellow Gaffington. Andy’s sorry he had a run-in with him, and I don’t blame Andy. He had trouble before, and this will only add to it. And that Gaffington is just mean enough, and small-spirited enough, to make trouble for Andy down there at Yale. He’s a sport—but one of the tin-horn brand. I don’t blame Andy for wishing it had been someone else.”
“Oh, well, here’s hoping,” said Frank. “We all have our troubles.”