“We never think,” interrupted Herb Fennington. “At least that’s what Prof. Preston told our class the other day.”
“Speak for yourself,” broke in Joe Atwood. “As for me, thinking is the best thing I do. I’ve got Plato, Shakespeare and the rest of those high-brows beaten to a frazzle.”
“Sure thing,” mocked Jimmy Plummer. “But don’t think because you have notions in your head that you’re a whole department store.”
Bob surveyed his comrades with a withering glare.
“When you funny fellows get through with your per-per-persiflage——” he began.
“Did you get that, fellows?” cried Jimmy. “Persiflage! Great! What is it, Bob? A new kind of breakfast food?”
“I notice it almost choked him to get it out,” remarked Joe, with a grin.
“Words of only one syllable would be the proper size for you fellows,” retorted Bob. “But what I was going to say was that I just heard from Mr. Bentley. You know the man I mean, the one that we saw at my house some time ago and who gave us all that dope about forest fires.”
“Oh, you mean the forest ranger!” broke in Joe eagerly. “Sure, I remember him. He was one of the most interesting fellows I ever met.”
“I’ll never forget what he told us about radio being used to get the best of forest fires,” said Herb. “I could have listened to him all night when once he got going.”