It was nearly half-past eight now, and other fellows began dropping in. Some helloed first and some came unannounced. Tucker looked up to see who they were. Sometimes he said "Hello" and sometimes he did not. Some of them took off their caps. Others did not. Tucker left it to the first ones to introduce Symington to the later ones. After half an hour's absence Timberly emerged from the room finishing a sentence he had begun before he opened the door. "And Tommy, you must do the rest. You can tie them so nicely too." "Tommy, look," said the man with the banjo on the sofa. Timberly was standing up straight, nicely incased in evening clothes and holding two ends of a white tie in his hands. He looked well-groomed and seemed like a different man now. Perhaps he was. "What are you doing?" said Tucker, in a stern voice. "I've got to do it. It's two years now, and it's not good form to let a dinner call go more than two years in Princeton. Here, Tommy, fix this." "Do it yourself." "These were great friends of my brother's, and he made me promise on the Family Bible, if we have one. Here, tie this. Great Scott, I've done all the rest. They are your own clothes. You ought to at least be willing to fix the tie." Tucker put his pen between his teeth and tied the knot with Timberly kneeling at his feet like a patient child having his face washed. Tucker was one of the three men in college who could make a decent job of a tie on another man's neck without standing behind him. The others looked on in silence. Timberly looked up and winked at the prep. As a rule Symington did not like people to wink at him, as though he were a boy, but this was a most peculiar wink. He not only liked it but nearly snorted out with laughter, which would have been a very kiddish thing to do. Timberly jumped up. "You're a pretty nice fellow, Tommy Tucker, even though you are arrogant," he said, and leaned over and rubbed his chin affectionately across Tucker's nose, then grabbed his cap and started for the door. "By the way Timber," said Tucker. "I want you to return those clothes some time. Do you hear? I may go out of town next week." "That sounds reasonable," replied Timberly, reflectively rattling the knob as he glanced about the room at the others. "And I don't want to chase all over the campus for 'em. Do you hear?" "Now, Tommy Tucker, you talk as if I were accustomed to keeping things I borrow. What are you fellows laughing at? Besides, you know very well, T. Tucker, that even if I should happen to forget to return your suit, all you would have to do would be to wire down home for mine--or, no, ask me and I'd wire down myself and save you the trouble." He banged the door. "Now do you suppose," laughed the one with the cigar on the divan as Timberly's feet in Tucker's patent leathers went pattering down the stairs, "that Timber thought he was in earnest in that last brilliant remark of his, or was it meant for horse." You could seldom tell with Timberly.