“Yes.” Roy left the window-seat on which he had been stretched and went over to the table to write. “Let me take your fountain-pen, Dick, will you? Mine’s dry.”
“You can take it if you can find it,” answered Dick, looking up from his book. “I haven’t seen it since I loaned it to Chub yesterday.”
“Dickums, I gave it back to you,” responded Chub, gravely. “I remember the circumstances perfectly; the whole thing comes back to me as though it were but yesterday.”
“It was but yesterday,” said Dick. “Look in your pocket.”
“Merely as a matter of form,” murmured Chub. “Why, here it is! How strange! Some one must have put it there. Catch, Roy.”
Roy caught, opened the pen, and then gazed disgustedly from his fingers to Dick.
“I should think you’d have a decent pen, Dick. This is the limit!”
“Never look a gift pen in the nib,” laughed Chub. “It is a pretty bad one, though, and that’s a fact. Let’s serve notice on Dick that unless he buys a good one we won’t borrow it any more.”
