“But all Prexy did was to look at me in that calm, withering, pitying way he has, and then say in that solemn voice of his: ‘Ah, Hatfield, I presume you are going in for vivisection’ Say, you could have floored me with a feather. That’s the kind of a man Dr. Morrison is.”
“Nobody else like him,” commented Andy, with a sigh.
“Oh, well, if any of us go to Yale, or Princeton, or Harvard, I guess we’ll find some decent profs. there,” spoke Ben. “They can’t all be riggers.”
“Sure not,” said Andy. “But those colleges will be a heap sight different from Milton.”
“Of course! What do you expect? This is a kindergarten compared to them!” exclaimed Frank.
“But it’s a mighty nice kindergarten,” commented Tom. “It’s like a school in our home town, almost.”
“I sure will be sorry to leave it,” added Andy. “But come on; we’ll never get to Kelly’s at this rate.”
The sun was sinking behind the western hills in a bank of golden and purple clouds. Two miles yet lay between the lads and their objective point—the odd little oyster and chop house so much frequented by the students of Milton. It was an historic place, was Kelly’s; a beloved place where the lads foregathered to talk over their doings, their hopes, their fears, their joys and sorrows. It was an old-fashioned place, with little, dingy rooms, come upon unexpectedly; rooms just right for small parties of congenial souls—with tall, black settles, and tables roughened with many jack-knifed initials.
“We can cut over to the road, and get there quicker,” remarked Andy, after a pause. “Suppose we do it. I don’t want to get back too late.”
“All right,” agreed Tom. “I want to write a couple of letters myself.”