"You bet your life it is!" said Jock, his melancholy flown.
He got to bed, finally, at four-thirty. His last drowsy thoughts were of Yvonne. Lord, what a girl! Who was she, anyway? She had certainly side-tracked him neatly when he tried to find out. And her kiss! He caught his breath, remembering. . . . But what had she meant by, "Oh, I am sorry for you?" What could she have meant? . . .
Pondering this, he fell asleep.
Jock himself could not have told why he was so deeply fond of Bones Allen, Certainly they had few traits in common aside from superficial ones. There was no romantic streak in Bones. He built no castles in the air and dreamed no dreams. He was a realist, pure and simple. Jock wondered sometimes if he ever thought, and if so, of what. When he talked, it was of girls and athletics. When he read, he read twenty-cent magazines with flamboyant, semi-nude covers. Occasionally he began frowningly to peruse a book, but he seldom got beyond the first two chapters. In his entire college career to date he had only been known to finish two: Flaming Youth by Warner Fabian, and Fitzgerald's Tales of the Jazz Age. Both of these he pronounced "corking," though he remarked that some of the stories in the latter volume were "not so hot." (Jock presumed that these were the more superior ones.) He enjoyed poker, the Follies, newspaper comic strips, motion pictures—particularly those in which Miss Pola Negri participated—dancing, any kind of sport, and the
