Pierson was the first, and he was followed by Griswold, who strutted proudly as he entered, crying:
“Did you see me do ’em up, fellows? Did you see me lay ’em out? Oh, I’m a hot biscuit right out of the bakery!”
“Quite a little racket, eh, Merriwell,” smiled Pierson.
“Sure,” nodded Frank. “We needed something to stir up our blood. We were getting stagnant here of late.”
Joe Gamp came lumbering in.
“Dud-dud-dud-dog my cuc-cuc-cuc-cats!” he stuttered. “Ain’t seen so much fun as that sence I was a fuf-fuf-freshman. But Browning did look comical up on that sus-sus-stool. A-haw! ha-aw! a-haw!”
Even as Gamp roared with laughter, Bruce came slouching into the room. He sat down and kicked off the rubber boots, which were too large for his feet, then he flung aside the “sou’wester,” removed his oilskin jacket, and stretched himself wearily on the couch, observing:
“Fishing is thundering tiresome work.”
“Were you doing it on a wager, old man?” asked Griswold.
“No,” yawned Bruce; “I was doing it on a stool.”