"Here, Nat, is something I stole for you from that crowd that was having the feast. Eat it up and don't tell the other fellows."
"Eh, what? The feast?" stammered Nat, and took the plate in his hand. "Who are you?"
"Hush!" whispered Dave, warningly. "Don't wake the others. I stole it for you. Eat it up. I'll tell you how I did it in the morning. It's a joke on Dave Porter!" And then Dave glided away from the bed and out of the room like a ghost, shutting the door noiselessly after him.
Half asleep, Nat Poole was completely bewildered by what he heard. In the semi-darkness he could not imagine who had brought the dish full of stuff. But he remembered the words, "eat it up" and "don't tell the other fellows" and "a joke on Dave Porter." That was enough for Nat. He sat up, looked at the fancy crackers and the salad, and smacked his lips.
"Must have been one of our old crowd," he mused. "Maybe Shingle or Remney. Well, it's a joke on Dave Porter right enough, and better than taking that pie he left for Murphy." And then he began to munch the crackers and eat the salad, using a tiny fork Dave had thoughtfully provided. He liked chicken salad very much, and this seemed particularly good, although at times it had a bitter flavor for which he could not account.
Peering through the keyhole of the door, Dave saw his intended victim make way with the salad. Then he ran back to his dormitory.
"It's all right," he said. "Now all of you undress and go to bed,—and watch for what comes!"