“Wing, of course,” responded Max. “Didn’t you know he wrote poetry? He does, ever so much, and grates his teeth, and his eyes roll like anything while he’s doing it. Then he tears it up. I saw one bit of it, though. I’ve forgotten just how it was; but it went something like this:—
“‘Oh, Miss Bernard, gentle sperrit!
For you I sigh, beyond your merit—’”
“Max Eliot, you hold your tongue,” interrupted Louis, blushing and wrathful. “You make up stories faster than you can tell them.”
“What’s struck you to-day, Max?” asked Alex. “You’re even wilder than usual.”
“Aren’t we all Wilders, I’d like to know? But I feel unusually hilarious; I’m invited to a great and glorious spread to-night, and it excites me, don’t you see?”
“Who has a spread?” queried Jack idly.
“Frank Osborn. It’s his birthday, I believe; anyway, he’s going to have a great time of it.”
“Say, Max, I wouldn’t go,” said Alex persuasively.
“Not go! Why not, I’d like to know?” returned Max.