Tom felt greatly relieved, as he was beginning to find himself in rather deep water; so he rushed into boating with great zest, and the two chatted on very pleasantly on that and other matters.
The college clock struck during a pause in their talk, and Tom looked at his watch.
“Eight o'clock I declare,” he said; “why I must have been here more than two hours. I'm afraid, now, you have been wanting to work, and I have kept you from it with my talk.”
“No, it's Saturday night. Besides, I don't get much society that I care about, and so I enjoy it all the more. Won't you stop and have some tea?”
Tom gladly consented, and his host produced a somewhat dilapidated set of crockery, and proceeded to brew the drink least appreciated at St. Ambrose's. Tom watched him in silence, much excercised in his mind as to what manner of man he had fallen upon; very much astonished at himself for having opened out so freely, and feeling a desire to know more about Hardy, not unmixed with a sort of nervousness as to how he was to accomplish it.
When Hardy sat down again and began pouring out the tea, curiosity overcame, and he opened with—
“So you read nights, after Hall?
“Yes, for two or three hours; longer, when I am in a good humor.”
“What, all by yourself?”
“Generally; but once or twice a week Grey comes in to compare notes. Do you know him?”