“Red and Black,” interpolated Amy.

“And next to Innes is Landers—­”

“Oh, forget it, Marvin,” advised Still.  “Thayer won’t remember.  Names don’t matter, anyway.”

“Some names,” retorted Marvin, “have little significance, yours amongst them.  I did the best I could for you, Thayer.  Remember that.  What’s the good word, Amy?”

“I have no news to relate,” was the grave response, “save that Jordan obtruded his shining cranium as we came in and requested me to inform you fellows that unless there was less noise up here—­”

Jeers greeted that fiction.  “I love your phrases, Amy,” said Marvin.  “‘Shining cranium’ is great”

“Oh, Amy is one fine little phraser,” said Innes.  “Remember his theme last year, fellows?  How did it go, Amy?  Let me see.  Oh!  ’The westerning sun sank slowly into the purple void of twilight, a burnished copper disk beyond the earth’s horizon!’”

“I never!” cried Amy indignantly.

“He loves to call a football an ‘illusive spheroid,’” chuckled another chap.

“So it is,” asserted Amy vehemently.  “I know, because I tried to play with one once!”

“I’ll bet a great little football player was lost when you forsook the gridiron for the—­the field of scholarly endeavour,” said Tom Hall.

“He’s caught it, too!” groaned the youth beside him, Steve Edwards.  “Guess I’ll take him home.”

“You’re not talking that way yet, are you, Thayer?” asked Jack Innes solicitously.

“I don’t think so,” replied Clint with a smile.

“You will sooner or later, though.  The fellow who roomed with Amy last year got so he couldn’t make himself understood in this country and had to go to Japan.”

“China,” corrected Amy, “China, the Land of the Chink and the chop-stick.”

“There he goes!” moaned Still.

“What I haven’t heard explained yet,” said Steve Edwards, “is what’s happened to Amy’s glad socks.  Why the sobriety, Amy?”

“Wouldst hear the sweet, sad story?”

“Wouldst.”

“Then give me your kind attention and I willst a tale unfold.  You see, it’s like this.  Clint there can tell you that just the other day I was a thing of beauty.  My slender ankles were sheer and silken delights.  But—­and here’s the weepy place, fellows—­when I disrobed I discovered that the warmth of the weather had affected the dye in those gladsome garments and my little footies were like unto the edible purple beet of commerce.  And I paid eighty-five cents a pair for those socks, too.  I—­I’m having them washed.”

When the laughter had ceased, Ruddie, who seemed a serious-minded youth, began a story of an uncle of his who had contracted blood-poisoning from the dye in his stockings.  What ultimately happened to the uncle Clint never discovered, for the others very rudely broke in on Ruddie’s reminiscences and the conversation became general and varied.  The boy next to Clint, whose name he learned later was Freer, politely inquired as to how Clint liked Brimfield and whether he played football.  To the latter question Clint confided that he did, although probably not well enough to stand much of a chance here.