“No, class in society.” Tommy rejected an unpromising piece of candy and searched farther. “Wealthy and conservative, you know. Hide-bound New England. All that sort of thing.” “I’m New England, if you like,” agreed Bert, amused, “but I’m not exactly wealthy, and I do hope I’m not hide-bound. That doesn’t sound comfortable. Aren’t you New England yourself, you crazy coot?” “No. I live there, but that’s all. We’re from Western New York originally. My father’s folks were Welsh and my mother’s Irish.” “I might have known there was Irish in you,” said Bert. “That’s how you come to like a scrap so well, Tommy.” “I don’t like scraps. You never saw me pick a quarrel yet. No one ever did. Sometimes fellows resent what I say to ’em, but that’s their fault.” “You came pretty close to having a scrap on your hands the other night over in Coles Wistar’s room,” Bert reminded him dryly. “What of it? I didn’t start it. Chick called me a fat loafer, didn’t he? Then I said he was playing a rotten game of football, which was the gospel truth, and he got on his ear! He’s short-tempered, that guy.” On the heels of that assertion Chick hurried into the room, looked surprised to see who the visitor was and said, “Hello, Tommy,” not very enthusiastically before turning to Bert. “Coming along?” he asked. “Mooney’s? I think not, Chick.” “Thought you said you would. You can change your mind quicker than any fellow I ever saw! Where’d you get to after supper? I wanted you to go over to Jim Galvin’s. Well, if you won’t come, all right. I’ve got to hurry.” “Hope you have luck,” said Bert as Chick found a cap and stuck it on the back of his head. “Well, it’s about time I did,” rejoined Chick as he opened the door. “See you later, old scout.” “Mooney?” asked Tommy, when Chick had departed. “Who’s he?” “Oh, just a fellow who lives in town. Chick goes to see him now and then.” Tommy accepted the explanation, but a close observer would have suspected that it didn’t altogether satisfy him. He laid the now empty box on the window-seat with a sigh of mingled regret and repletion, stretched his rather pudgy legs out and then startledly clapped a hand to the back of his neck. He wiggled his head sidewise several times, and then up and down, while Bert gazed at him in puzzlement. Finally he sighed again, this time with pure concern, and murmured: “Darn the luck! Another Job!” “Another what?” asked Bert. “Job. That’s what I call them,” explained Tommy, evidently very low in his mind. “Job had ’em, you know.” “Had what?” Bert was still in the dark. “Gee, don’t you read your Bible?” asked Tommy irritably. “Boils, of course! I’m always having ’em. Makes me sick. I’ll bet it’s the water here.” “You don’t suppose eating so much has anything to do with it?” Bert inquired innocently. “Candy and peanuts and that sort of stuff?”