“Wait a minute! Did you or didn’t you ask me to get you a handkerchief one day and drop it out the window to you? And was or wasn’t said handkerchief in said top drawer of said--” “Oh, shut up,” said Chick, grinning. “All right, old son. Say no more. But trust you to see the fags! As to getting rid of them, that would be rotten extravagance, Bert. No, but I’ll stick ’em out of sight where I won’t see ’em. How’ll that do? But, listen. Will you shoot some pool, or won’t you, you poor fish?” “Won’t,” answered Bert. “That is, I will if you’ll play in a respectable place, but I don’t like the atmosphere of Rooney’s--” “Mooney’s.” “Looney’s, then. And I’m not referring entirely to the tobacco smoke. A lot of the gentlemen who frequent that dive are the sort that my Sunday school teacher expressly warned me against, Chick.” “Oh, cut out the comedy stuff,” growled the older boy. “Come on, won’t you? You don’t have to pay any attention to the others. I’ll give you a handicap of--” “No, thanks, old man, I really had rather not. Anyway, I’ve got some math here that will stand an hour’s work.” “Do it later. Great Scott, don’t you know this is Saturday night?” “Sure, but I sort of feel in the mood for math, Chick. A--a kind of mental alertness possesses me, and although--” “Oh, go to thunder!” said Chick shortly, and pulled a cap on his head. “The next time I ask you, you’ll know it, you blamed Miss Nancy.” “Them’s hard words,” murmured Bert. “What time you coming back?” “Some time before ten. Why?” “Just wondered if you recalled the fact that you’re supposed to be in bed by that hour.” “_What?_ Who said so? Johnny hasn’t started that stuff yet, has he?” “Even so, Chick. He specifically mentioned his wishes no later than yesterday. Every one in bed by ten sharp, were his words.” “Well, he’s got a crust,” Chick declared. “That’s mid-season stuff. How’s he get that way?” “I really can’t say, but, joking aside, Charles, do try to be home by nine-thirty or thereabouts, eh? These late hours--” “Oh, shut up!” With his hand on the door, Chick made a final and pathetic appeal. “Be a good guy, Bert, won’t you? Listen, we’ll go to that place on West street, if you can’t stand Mooney’s.” Bert waved the pencil in dismissal. “Run along to your disreputable acquaintances, Chick. Fact is, I’m not feeling lucky to-night. Besides, I got a slam on the shin this afternoon that tells me I wouldn’t enjoy tramping a couple of miles around a table. Some other time, O Wizard of the Cue.”