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 at all. Then he glances at his watch and whistles. "Hurry up and get into your evening clothes," he barks at me, startin' the water in the bathtub dnd commencin' to strip. "We're going up to the Savoy, where some of the bunch who were in my class at Yale, and happen to be here, are giving me a little dinner to celebrate my approaching contest with the world's champion."

"Yale guys?" I says. "Why, what tha—why, I thought all them old Elis was off you for life since you become a leather pusher?"

"Why?" inquires the Kid. "Because that little rotter Carrowsmith came here and upbraided me?" He curls his lip. "Don't be an ass! Carrowsmith no more represents the real college spirit than a mongrel hound, for instance, represents the spirit of the blooded dog."

"All right, all right," I cuts him off, "go ahead. I'm glad to hear them babies is regular guys—but where do I fit in this here party?"

"Whither I goest, thou goest!" laughs the Kid. "As my friend and manager, you'll be as welcome as I'll be. Come on, snap into it—you have just about time to shave."

"Nothin' stirrin'!" I says. "I belong at a Yale dinner the same way I belong in the White House! My grammar would never stand up under the strain of bein' allowed to roam wild among a lot of cuckoos with F. O. B., B. A., I. E., and the like tacked after their names."

"Come on!" he grins, givin' me what he prob'ly figured was a playful push and which flopped me on top of the bed. "Don't be a crape hanger all your life. These boys are regular fellows. I know you're going to like them, and they're going to like you!"