"You know what I mean," Clif laughed. "I'd sort of like to know him, but he doesn't give you much encouragement. Being so blamed rich, maybe he doesn't want to have anything to do with us. Still, he doesn't look snobbish."
"I came near speaking to him yesterday," said Tom, "but the valet chap looked so sort of snippy I didn't. Glad of it now. Guess he'd have frozen me up."
"I don't believe so, Tom."
"Well, I'm sorry for him, but I don't want to know him. Fellows whose folks have a lot of money put on too many airs for me, old son. Get a move on. I've got to get back and tell Billy where he gets off!"
After a week at school Clif felt as if he had been there a long while. He had become accustomed to the routine, and a willing slave to the clanging gong. At first getting up promptly at seven, slipping inside assembly hall for prayers before the doors closed at seven-fifteen and reaching Table 12 for breakfast before eight had been irksome. And for a day or two he was forced to consult his schedule frequently in order to appear at the right recitation room at the proper time. Accustomed to studying alone, the first study hour in assembly hall had profited him but little. You had to go there at eight and sit until nine, surrounded by something like a hundred and ninety others, and prepare your next day's lessons. You could study as much as you pleased at other times, and in other places, but between eight and nine in the evening, every day save Saturday, you had to be present in assembly
