“And thought he recognized a kinship!” laughed Greg Carker.
At which sally from the solemn and philosophical Carker the boisterous sophomores cackled with glee.
The twang of a mandolin was heard, as Bert Dashleigh was made to waddle forward on all fours and kiss the shiny pate of the pictured host. It was Dashleigh’s own mandolin, produced by a student who had hastily invaded Dashleigh’s room for the purpose.
“How did you get in?” Bert coolly asked, stopping in the midst of his osculatory adorations.
“Fell through the transom,” said the student. “Why the dickens do you always keep your door locked? That transom is so contracted that I sprained my wish-bone.”
“Good thing if you had sprained your neck!” Bert flung back; and was then dragged away, lest in his fervent kissing he should lick all the paint off the wood.
Two stools were produced from some invisible source, and, while other freshmen were compelled to bow before and kiss the picture, Dashleigh and Starbright were made to sit on the stools and sing:
“Oh, who will smoke my meerschaum pipe, meerschaum pipe?
Oh, who will smoke my meerschaum pipe, meerschaum pipe?
Oh, who will smoke my meerschaum pipe, when I am far away?