“You don’t want to go to that game, Van.  Just look how it’s raining.  I’ll bet there won’t be a thousand people there.  They’ll probably postpone the game anyway.  Say, this is queer looking stuff.  What do you call it?”

“Creme violette.”

The Dummy set down his emptied liqueur glass on the mantelshelf, and nodded approvingly at Vandover; then he scribbled, “Out of sight,” on his tablet.

“Tastes like cough syrup and alcohol,” growled Ellis, scowling and sipping.  “I think a pint of this would make the Dummy talk Dutch.  Keep it up, Dummy,” he continued, articulating distinctly so that the other could catch the movement of his lips.  “Drink some more—­make you talk.”  Vandover was cutting the string around a pasteboard box that had just come from his tailor’s; it was a new suit of clothes, rough cheviot, brown with small checks.  He dressed slowly and tipped forward the swinging mirror of the bureau to see how the trousers set.  Meanwhile Ellis and the Dummy had got out the cards and chips from the drawer of the centre-table and had begun a game.

“Better change your mind, Van,” said Ellis without raising his eyes from the cards.

“No, sir,” answered Van.  “You don’t know how it is—­you never were a college man.  Why, I wouldn’t miss a football game for anything.  Talk about your horse-racing, talk about your baseball—­I tell you there’s nothing in the world so exciting as a hot football game.”  He swung into his long high-coloured waterproof and stood behind Ellis, watching his game for a moment while he tied a couple of long silk streamers to his umbrella handle.

“It’s one of the college colours,” he explained.  “Seems like old times back at Harvard.”  Ellis snorted with contempt.

“Such kids!” he growled.

“I saw one of the coaches go down the street a little while ago,” continued Vandover, still watching Ellis shuffle and deal.  “There were about twenty college men on top, and they had a big bulldog all harnessed out in their colours, and they were blowing fish-horns, and I tell you it made me wish I was one of them again.”  Ellis did not answer; it was probable he did not hear.  Both he and the Dummy were settling down for a game that no doubt would last all the afternoon.  Vandover made them free of his room, and they often gambled there when he was away.  But it invariably made Ellis nervous to have any one stand behind his chair while he was playing; he began to move about uneasily.  By and by he looked at his watch.  “Better get a move on,” he said, “you’ll be late.”

“Just a minute,” answered Vandover, more and more interested in the game.  “Go on playing; don’t bother about me.  Oh, I saw Charlie Geary, too,” he continued, “on another coach; there was a party of them.  Charlie was with Turner Ravis on the box seat.  You remember Turner Ravis, don’t you, Bandy?  The girl I used to go with.”

“There’s a girl I never liked,” observed Ellis.  “She always struck me as being one of these regular snobs.”