“Maybe you fellows did, but I wouldn’t call it a lunch that I got outside of—not by a long shot! Mother isn’t at home, it was the girl’s day out and I had to forage for myself.”
“Heaven help the pantry, then!” exclaimed Jerry. “I’ve seen Bob ‘forage,’ as he calls it, before; eh, Ned?”
“That’s right. He did it at our house once, and say! what mother said when she came home—whew!” and Ned whistled at the memory.
“I wasn’t a bit worse than you were!” cried Bob, trying to lean back and punch his chum, but the latter kept out of reach in the roomy tonneau. “Anyhow, what has that got to do with going to Wallace’s now? I’m hungry and I don’t care who knows it.”
“Well, don’t let that fat waiter at Wallace’s hear you say that, or he’ll double charge us in the bill,” cautioned Jerry. “They sure do stick on the prices at that joint.”
“Then you’ll go there?” asked Bob eagerly.
“Oh, I s’pose we might as well go there as anywhere. Does it suit you, Ned?”
“Sure. Only I can’t imagine where Bob puts it all. Tell us, Chunky, that’s a good chap,” and he patted the shoulder of the stout lad who sat in front of him.
“Tell you what?” asked Bob, responding to the nickname that had been bestowed on him because of his stoutness.
“Where you put all you eat,” went on Ned with a laugh. “You know it is impossible to make two objects occupy the same space at the same time. And if you’ve eaten one lunch to-day, and not two hours ago, where are you going to put another?”