“Nothing. I was just getting poetical, that’s all. You needn’t stare at the sandwiches and olives, George, my boy; they are substantial, if my poetry isn’t, and they won’t disappear. Come on, fellows, get busy.”
The feast was soon under way, and though the boys could have had nearly everything displayed on the “bed” at their regular meal, they all agreed that the viands tasted ever so much better served in the forbidden manner that they were.
“Pass those pickles, Jed, my boy!” commanded Tom to a lanky Freshman.
“And keep that mustard moving,” ordered Jack. “Those frankfurters are prime, Tom.”
“I thought you’d like ’em,” remarked our hero.
“Put some more on to cook,” pleaded Jack.
“Sure,” assented Bert Wilson, who presided at the “stove.”
This was an arrangement of wires, ingeniously made by Tom, so that it fitted over the gas, and on which a saucepan could be set over the flame. In this pan the sausages were simmering.
Bert put in some more, and stood anxiously watching them, fork in hand, while George buttered rolls, and passed them around.
“I propose a toast!” exclaimed Frank Carter, rising, a bottle of ginger ale in one hand, and a big piece of chocolate cake in the other.