And White went home to his chilly attic room at old Miss Rolfe’s, which he paid for by tending the furnace and shovelling the paths, and tried to prove to his satisfaction in black and white that by cutting meat out of his dinner four times a week he could save enough to carry him through to the end of the term, when the scholarship payments would be made. He had already been boarding himself for a fortnight, the dining hall having proved too expensive for his shrivelled purse.
Not every one in school was in trouble, as the last chapter would seem to indicate. Tompkins and the Pecks, for example, were not bored by the monotony of life, had no unwelcome visitors descending into their closets by rope ladders, and enjoyed three square meals every day. Since the affair of the rubbers, the Pecks’ dormitory entry had seen days of peace. With Tompkins’s vague threats of retribution still ringing in their ears, the twins had walked circumspectly and left the senior’s dignity unassailed. But with every day of delay in the coming of that retribution the threats were losing effect.
The Pecks were sauntering aimlessly down the dormitory path, when Tompkins overtook them.
“Where are you going, Tommy, and what for?” demanded Duncan.
“I’m going to Horne’s to buy a paper of tacks, my sweet half bushel,” responded Tompkins, who was in fine humor. “May I have the pleasure of your company?”
“Sure!” said Donald, and Duncan seemed at first to be of the same mind, but after a few paces stopped abruptly. “I think I won’t go,” he said.
“Better come on and see how it’s done,” said Tompkins. “You may want to buy tacks sometime yourself.”
“You can show Don, he’s the better scholar,” Duncan rejoined, as he turned back toward the dormitory.
But Tompkins and Donald were no sooner out of sight around the corner than Duncan suddenly wheeled, and scampering down a side street and through a back yard, emerged among the stores on Water Street. He stopped at Horne’s hardware store, peeped in, and then boldly walked down to the middle of the store, where old Mr. Horne himself was sitting behind the morning paper. It was the noon hour and customers were few.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Horne, slowly, eying the boy over his spectacles as he folded up his paper.