“Why is it? Might as well be doing that as sitting around in the room. There’s nothing wrong with Mooney’s place, is there? You saw what it was like to-night.” “N-no, there’s nothing wrong with it, I guess; except that a lot of betting goes on there and the crowd isn’t exactly the sort a fellow would pick out to spend an evening with.” “Pshaw, the crowd’s all right. Just because they don’t happen to be our sort doesn’t mean anything, Bert. Take Les Devore, now. Of course he isn’t a college fellow, and all that sort of tosh, but he’s a mighty decent guy, just the same. Works hard for his living and gets his fun playing a little pool.” “What does he work at?” asked Bert. “Railroading. He’s something over at the freight yard, I believe. Why?” “I just wondered. His hands don’t look as if he did an awful lot of work, Chick.” “Great Scott, I didn’t say he handled freight! He probably works in the office. Some sort of a clerk, I dare say. I guess you don’t like him, from the way you talk.” “I don’t know enough about him,” replied the other evasively. “I’ll own up, though, old chap, that I wasn’t strangely attracted to him this evening.” “What was wrong with him?” demanded Chick irritably. “For one thing, he plays too good a game of pool. I wouldn’t be surprised, Chick, if you found out that playing pool is Devore’s real work.” “Forget it! He doesn’t play as well as I do, and you can’t say that I make a--a profession of it!” “He doesn’t yet,” answered Bert as he followed his companion up the steps of the dormitory, “but I have a hunch that that bird is going to improve fast!” “Is, eh? Well, he isn’t going to improve any faster than I do,” replied Chick, with a comfortable laugh. “Come along Monday night and watch me pick the pin feathers off him!” “No, thanks, I’ve had all the smoke I can stand for six months. Wonder why it’s against the law to ventilate a billiard hall!” “Gosh, you’re getting as pernickety as an old maid!” jeered Chick. “Tobacco smoke’s good for you, old scout. Keeps the moths out of your system, and all that.” “What do you think I am?” laughed Bert. “A parlor rug?” Bert beat the clock and was in bed when its hands pointed to ten. Chick undressed more leisurely, reviewing his and his adversary’s performance, and was still solicitously slicking down his hair when the fateful hour was announced by the booming of the church bell across the campus. “Orders,” remarked Bert, good-naturedly ironic, “don’t mean anything in your life, do they, Charles?” “Orders? Oh, that! Listen to me, son. Johnny’s got to square himself for what he did this afternoon before I put myself out obeying any orders of his. Say, I hope to goodness the Flubdub hauls him over the coals for losing that game!” “He should worry,” yawned Bert. CHAPTER VII BERT GOES THROUGH