"Hard as a goat," said Dennis after an admiring whistle. "All nice little cast-iron, jerky bunches, ready and willing. Been in training, Dink?" "Yes, just so." "Feels sort of soft to me," said the Tennessee Shad pensively. "Oh, it does?" "Question: what can you do with it? Lift a trunk as heavy as this?" "Huh!" said Stover, bending down. "Where do you want it?" "Gee! I do believe he can carry it almost to the room," said the Tennessee Shad, whose theory of life was to admire others do his work for him. Stover bore it proudly on his shoulders and set it down. Dennis, planting himself arms akimbo, surveyed him with melancholy disapproval. "Too bad, Dink! I had expected better things from you. You're still green, Dink. Been too much with the cows and chickens. Don't do it; don't do it!" Stover glanced at the Tennessee Shad, who, satisfied, had curled himself up on the bed, to rest himself after the exertion of walking. "I guess I am still a sucker," he said, scratching his head with a foolish grin, "I'll not be so easy next time." "Never mind, Dink," said Dennis comfortingly. "Your education's been neglected, but I'm here. Remember that, Dennis is here, ready and willing." Presently the Gutter Pup and Lovely Mead came tumbling in, and then the lumbering proportions of P. Lentz, King of the Kennedy, crowded through the doorway, and the conversation continued in rapid crossfire. "Who's seen the Waladoo Bird?" "Jock Hasbrouck's dropped into the third form." "What do you think of the electric lights they've given us?" "They've stuck an arc light in the Circle, too." "We'll fix that." "How's the new material, King?" "Rotten!" "Think we've a chance for the House championship?" "A fine chance--to finish last." "Say, who do you think they've stuck us with?" "Who?" "Beekstein." "Suffering Moses!" "Never mind. We've got the Dink." "What's he do?" "He's the champion truckman--carry your trunk for you anywhere you want." Dink, thus brought unwillingly into the conversation, blushed a warm red. "Truckman?" said P. Lentz, mystified. "Champion," said Finnegan. "The mysterious champion truckman of Broad Street Station, Philadelphia. Stand up, Dink, my man, and twitch your muscles." Stover squirmed uneasily on his chair. There was no malice in the teasing, and yet he was at a loss how to turn it. The Gutter Pup, as president of the Sporting Club and chief authority on the life and works of the late Marquis of Queensberry, examined the embarrassed Stover, running professional fingers over his legs and arms. "You're the fellow who tried to fight the whole Green House, aren't you?" he said, immensely interested. "Why, yes."