“This social life is truly exciting,” observed Chub, strolling into the forward cabin with a whisk broom in his hand. “Has anyone a nice red tie to lend me?”
No one had, it seemed. Dick ventured the opinion that a red tie was not a proper adjunct to a dinner costume, and that precipitated a discussion that lasted until they were ready to climb the hill to the hotel, Chub asserting that with a blue serge suit nothing was more chaste and recherché than a nice bright red scarf.
“And, anyway, you wild Westerner,” he shouted from across the passage, “it’s not for the likes of you to be setting up as an authority on masculine attire. If you had your way you’d go to dinner in chaps and a sombrero!” When they had reached the table, Chub glanced over the menu with a disappointed expression, and shook his head. “That’s the trouble with these hotels,” he said. “There’s no variety. This bill’s just about the same as last night’s. The only difference is that they’ve called the soups by different names and substituted flounder--which they call sole--for bluefish.”
“The ice-cream’s different,” said Dick cheerfully. But Chub refused to be placated.
“It has another name,” he said darkly, “but you wait until you try it. It will taste the same as last night’s!”
But he recovered his equanimity as the meal progressed. He heroically denied himself a second helping of cream pie, recalling the fact that there was to be a hop that evening. “It’s hard enough for me to hop anyway,” he said, “and if I ate any more pie, I wouldn’t be able to move out of my chair.” But thanks to his self-denial Chub was able to do his full duty on the ball-room floor, and was ably assisted by Roy. Dick, however, preferred to sit on the piazza and swap yarns with the curly-haired sub-freshman, and it was not until he had been forcibly assisted through a window onto the dancing floor, that he consented to uphold the honor of the _Slow Poke_, as Chub eloquently put it.
The next day, the second of their stay, they gave a luncheon on board the house-boat. Dick cooked the viands and they were served under the awning on the upper deck. The menu was neither varied nor extensive, but each of the invited guests vowed that they had never tasted anything better. And, of course, it was lots of fun. Even when Dick spilled the chops all up and down the steps and had to wipe them off before he could serve them no one grumbled. In fact you’d have thought that the party preferred their chops that way! After luncheon the _Slow Poke_ was persuaded to sidle out into the stream, and for an hour she waddled up or down the river. Every one of the guests insisted on signing articles with Captain Chub at once, and it required all of the latter’s tact and diplomacy to ward them off.