"But, Tom, see here----"

"But I wanted to say the poem couldn't be better," went on the
fun-loving Rover. "Why don't you send it to some of the dog journals?
They would be sure to print it."

"Dog journals?" snorted the would-be poet. "Do you think I write for
such a class of publications as that?"

"Well, you might do worse," responded Tom, coolly. "Now, for a
first-class journal, they ought to pay you at least a dollar a foot."

"Oh, Tom, you are the worst ever!" murmured Songbird, as he turned
away. A few minutes later, Tom saw him sit down on a bench to compose
verses as industriously as ever.

"I think I must be going," said William Philander, who had listened to
Songbird's effort without making any comment.

"Wait a minute, my dear Billy, I want----"

"Now, Tom, please don't call me Billy," pleaded the dudish student.

"Oh, all right, Philly. I was just going to say----"

"Now, Tom, Philly is just as bad as Billy, if not worse. You know my
name well enough."

"All right, Tubblets. If you prefer any such handle to the tub, why