Tompkins stared. “Laughlin’s no dude, I’ll admit,” he said after some deliberation. “He’s never been able to get money at a bank just by signing a check, and I don’t suppose he’d feel entirely at home in a Fifth Avenue ballroom. But he’s worth as many Marchmonts as you can pile in that bedroom there—and a pile of Marchmonts would settle a good bit; they’d be pretty flabby.”
“Please remember that Marchmont’s a friend of mine,” said Wolcott, haughtily.
“Is he?” said Tompkins, coolly. “I’m not so sure of that.”
This remark Wolcott received with chilling silence.
“There’s one thing Marchmont can do all right,” went on Tompkins.
“Play the mandolin. He’s ’most as good as a nigger minstrel.”
“There’s another thing he can do,” replied Wolcott, quickly, “write poetry. You’re mighty glad to get it for the _Lit_.”
“Yes, there was some verse in the last number over his name,—rather streaky, I called it. Four stanzas were good and one was bum. The fellow who did the four good ones wasn’t a bad fist at writing rhymes.”
“Have I said he didn’t?” responded Tompkins, with an exasperating grin.
“And he had a prose article in the January number.”
“That horse business? Yes, that wasn’t bad. He wrote it as a theme and had to rewrite it twice afterward before Bain would accept it. By the time it got to us it was fairly readable.”
“It’s better than the stuff you write,” declared the indignant Lindsay.
Tompkins smiled and nodded. “Quite likely; I’m not the only paying mine in the cañon. Going to Eastham with the band to-morrow night?”
“Yes,” replied Wolcott, sullenly, “the Glee and Mandolin clubs are both going.”
“I should like to go myself if I didn’t have to hear the concert.—Well, there’s the bell. Always be a good boy and stand up for your friends, especially if they have good clothes and nice ladylike manners. So long!”
And Tompkins sauntered forth, not forgetting to keep a sharp lookout for any missile that might follow him, and leaving the middler choking with helpless indignation. When Tommy was in this mood, he was unbearable. Mean, spiteful, envious, fresh—these were adjectives that occurred to Wolcott’s agitated mind; he had feelings which he knew no words to express. He didn’t like Laughlin, and he would not have the fellow crammed down his throat, though he might be the greatest football player who ever handled a ball; he did like Marchmont, and he wouldn’t be bullied out of his opinion if all the cowboys in Montana joined together to deride him.