“Oh, it’s real all right.”
“Here’s Sam Black. What you got, Sam?”
“Why, he’s all swelled up as though he had the mumps.”
Sam did indeed bulge on every side. He did not speak, but, entering the room, began to unload himself of bottled soda and root beer. From every pocket he took a bottle—two from some—and others from various nooks and corners of his clothes, until the bed was half covered with bottled delight.
“Say, that’s goin’ some!” murmured Jack enviously.
“It sure is,” agreed Tom. “We won’t die of thirst from my olives now,” for Tom had brought a generous supply of those among other things.
Someone leaned against the bed, and the bottles rolled together with many a clatter and clash.
“Easy there!” cautioned Bert. “Do you want to bring the whole building up here? Remember this isn’t the dining-hall. Go easy!”
“I didn’t mean to,” spoke George, the offending one.
Gradually the room filled, until it was a task to move about in it, but this was no detriment at all to the lads. Then in the dim light of a few shaded candles, for they did not want the glimmer of the electrics to disclose the affair to some watching monitor, the feast began.