"No such luck," spoke Andy, ruefully. "I had a letter from my sister
only the other day, and she mentioned some row that Mort had gotten into
at Yale. Came within an ace of being taken out, but it was smoothed
over. No, I'll have to rub up against him if I go there."
"Well, you don't need to have much to do with him," suggested Frank.
"And you can just make up your mind that I won't," spoke Andy. "I'll
steer clear of him from the minute I strike New Haven. But don't let's
talk about it. Where's that waiter, anyhow? Has he gone out to kill a
fatted calf?"
"Here he comes," announced Ben. "Get a move on there, Adolph!"
"Yah!"
"And don't wait for my French fried potatoes to sprout, either," added
Chet.
"Yah, shure not!"
"Oh, look who's here!" exclaimed Tom, nodding toward a newcomer. "Shoot
in over here, Swipes!" he called to a tall lad, whose progress through
the room was marked by friendly calls on many sides. He was a general
favorite, Harry Morton by name, but seldom called anything but "Swipes,"
from a habit he had of taking or "swiping" signs, and other mementoes of
tradesmen about town; the said signs and insignia of business later
adorning his room.
"Got space?" asked Harry, as he paused at the little compartment which
held our friends.
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