As for Bar Vernon, he had seen all sorts of accommodations in his day, and was disposed to take a rose-colored view of every item belonging to his present quarters.
By dinner-time the boys were in a high state of preparation for it, so far as appetite went, but they were hardly expecting the sort of company that awaited them on their entering the dining-room.
“Mr. Manning! Mr. Vernon! My name is Brayton. Glad to see you both. My mother and sister have written me about you.”
It was a bit of a surprise to find that their teacher was also to be their fellow-boarder, but neither Val nor Bar was the kind of boy to repel so very frank and kindly a greeting.
In fact, before the meal was over, Brayton had even heard the story of the boat, as well as Bar’s repeated lamentations over his deficiencies.
“Come up into my room,” he said, with reference to the latter. “I can hardly advise you what to do till we’ve had some further talk.”
Up they went, and they saw quite enough, at once, to give them a good opinion of their new friend.
Bar picked up a book which was lying on the table.
“French,” said Brayton. “One of George Sands’s novels. One of these days you’ll get ready to take hold of such things.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Val, “he’s picked up French. He talked German, too, for an hour at a time, with an old fellow we met at the seashore.”