The talk in the kitchen had given him warning. If he would not rouse suspicion, he must increase the gaiety of his air and manner. As he strolled down the street, he was whistling shrilly; and he shifted to a merrier tune when he turned in at the gate of the Joneses’ place, and walking up to the door of a small and very trim outbuilding, knocked thrice.
A few months earlier Mr. Jones, disposing of a pony, whose legs had become a good deal shorter than Step’s, had turned the pony’s quarters over to his son, with the understanding that the little house was to be used for a club, which the boys were forming. Step and his chums at once took possession. They worked like beavers, cleaning, sweeping, painting and furnishing the building, and succeeded in making for themselves a very attractive meeting place. The club—it was called the Adelphi—had flourished mightily, and membership in it was highly prized.
Sam’s triple knock brought no response, being, indeed, somewhat of an empty form and ceremony; and after waiting for a moment—this, too, was part of the accepted program—he opened the door and walked in. Step and Poke were in the lounging room, recently the space given to the pony cart. Its walls were gay with college pennants, photographs, and pictures cut from magazines and newspapers; in one corner was a lounge, worn but still useful; the chairs represented contributions from the attics of several families; there was a serviceable table, on which stood a shaded lamp; and an oil heater effectually dispelled the chill of the afternoon air.
“Hi there, fellows!” Sam sang out. “What are you doing to kill time?”
It had been his desire to impress them with his ease of mind, but neither betrayed much interest in his mood. Step, huddled in an old steamer chair, was a picture of depression and angles, with his knees almost on a level with his ears, and his long arms sagging till his hands touched the floor. Poke was standing before a blackboard, which hung on the wall. As he turned to regard the newcomer, his round face was puckered in a frown.
“Oh, you, Sam?” he said absently.
“Oh, you?” croaked Step like a dismal echo.
Sam glanced from one to the other. “What’s the row?” he inquired. “You two look like chickens with the pip.”
“Chickens? Ugh!” Step fairly shuddered.
“Huh!” snorted Poke; and turning to the blackboard, dabbed viciously at it with the eraser which he had in his left hand.