An’ you may pack your ’aversack,
For we won’t come back no more,’”
warbled Max sentimentally, from his seat in the bow. “We’ll be the seniors then,” he added complacently, “and you’d better believe we’ll show you how to do things.”
“No use to put on airs, Max,” retorted Jack. “There’ll never be another class like ninety-one, and you may as well make up your mind to it.”
“Conceit, thy name is—Howard!” paraphrased Max, dropping his oar and bending over the edge of the boat, to paddle in the clear water.
“Oh, Hal,” asked Alex, all at once; “how comes on the poem?”
Harry groaned, as he lay down on the narrow seat and turned his face up to the blue sky above.
“It doesn’t come,” he said, “I’ve a few ideas, but I can’t make them rhyme. I don’t see why, in the name of all common sense, you fellows put me in as class poet.”
“Probably because there wasn’t anybody else to do it,” suggested Max benevolently. “When we come to our class day plans, though, we sha’n’t have any trouble over our poet, we have one all ready and waiting to step into office.”
“Who is it?” inquired Leon curiously.