The holiday spirit was abroad. It was in the air—everywhere—the glorious spirit of Christmas, the day of which was not far distant. The boys seemed to know that the school discipline would be somewhat relaxed, though they did not take too much advantage of it.
Various engagements were made for surreptitious parties to meet here and there, to enjoy forbidden, and, therefore, all the more delightful, midnight lunches. The lads had been saving part of their allowances for some time, just for this occasion, and some had even arranged to bring away with them, from the refectory, some of their supper that night.
In due time a merry little party had gathered in the room of Bert Wilson in one of the larger and newer dormitories. The boys slid in, one by one, taking reasonable care not to meet with any prowling professor or monitor. But they knew that unless the rules were flagrantly violated, little punishment would be meted out. Each lad who came brought with him a more or less bulky package, until Bert’s room looked like the headquarters of some war, earthquake or flood-relief society, as Tom said.
“And are these the oranges George boasted of?” asked Jack, taking up one and sampling it.
“Aren’t they dandies?” demanded George.
“Whew! Oh, my! Who put orange skins on these lemons?” demanded Jack, making a wry face.
“Lemons?” faltered George, a look of alarm spreading over his expressive countenance.
“Lemons?” cried Tom. “Let me taste. Whew! I should say so,” he added. “They’re as sour as citric acid.”
“And he said they came from Indian River,” mocked Morse.
“Let’s throw ’em out the window,” proposed Joe Rooney.