“Cute college types,” said Prescott Smythe, gazing at one through the porch screens of the Omega house, “are a dime a dozen!”
A brother at his side examined the girl, from auburn hair to flat-heeled green sandals.
“Make it two bits. Everything’s high these days.”
“That one,” said another brother, “is named Althena Bailey.” Faces turned and the brother went on, “A transfer. From ‘Johjah.’ She is interested in collecting. She’d like to collect an Omega fraternity pin. Otherwise she is not interested. Any further questions?”
A man with a crew-cut, freckles, a gold football, said, “Why is it so many women who want to act unsteady have to go steady first?”
“Ask Heartbreak Smythe! He’s gone steady with more unsteady dames than an assistant director of B pictures!”
Prescott Smythe, or Scotty, ignored the reference. He rose. He crossed the porch to a large concrete urn in which was growing a huge vine with dark green, lacily slit leaves. He peered intently at the vine.
“There is nothing for breaking hearts,” said a thin brother, “like a convertible. That’s what the word means. It converts ’em.”
Scotty Smythe finally spoke. “You know,” he said in elegant tones, “when I stole this vine it was hardly two feet tall. I’ve had to swipe four pots for it, through the years. In graduated sizes. Now, look at it! Magnificent foliage. A monstera deliciosa, the botany boys tell me. Should bear fruit. Edible fruit. Never had so much as a cucumber on it!”
The brothers ignored the countermeasure. “Sad thing about Smythe,” said the football player. “Stealing flowerpots. Now he’s trying to swipe the Orange Bowl. The Queen, anyhow. As soon as a man recognizes a cutest college type, he’s through.”