Which he did, after his rub-down, leaving Socker sitting in the main room of the gym, waiting for him, and wondering why the lad did not come out to hear the war story.
Jack reached his room, little the worse for his experience at the lake. He possessed a fine appetite, which he was soon appeasing by vigorous attacks on the food in the dining-room.
“I say, Jack,” called Nat, “have you heard the latest?”
“What’s that? Has the clock struck?” inquired Jack, ready to have some joke sprung on him.
“No, but Fred Kaler has composed a song about the race and your rescue. He’s going to play it on the mouth-organ, and sing it at the same time to-night.”
“I am not, you big duffer!” cried Fred, throwing a generous crust of bread at Nat, but first taking good care to see that Martin, the monitor, was not looking.
“Sure he is,” insisted Nat.
“Tell him how it goes,” suggested Bony.
“It’s to the tune of ‘Who Put Tacks in Willie’s Shoes?’” went on Nat, “and the first verse is something like this——”
“Aw, cheese it, will you?” pleaded Fred, blushing, but Nat went on: