“Pass the spuds, there, Hotch!” “Trying to hog all the canned oleo, Ming?” “A little more of the planked shad, if you please!” “Where’s my fork?” “Confound it, Bleek, the first thing you know the company will find out we didn’t have forks enough to go around, and that we’re using one between us.” “If you can’t be real polite, then for Heaven’s sake be as polite as you can.” “I’ve got a bone in my throat!” wailed Hotchkiss. “Hit him on the back,” said Bleeker; “everybody hit Hotch on the back.”
Everybody took a slam at Hotchkiss, and when they got through with him he had been pounded to a frazzle—but he had got rid of the bone.
“That’ll do!” he cried. “I’m no punching bag—let up.”
“Where’s the bone?” asked Bleeker severely.
“Gone! It’s not bothering me half so much, now, as you fellows are.”
“Prove it’s gone.”
“How?”
“Sing. Go on, Hotch.”
“I’ve eaten too much—I can’t sing.”
“Try it!” clamored the others.