“Yes, sar.”
“And, Sam, we shall want something more to eat at noon, and we can’t very well carry it with us. About half past eleven put the pony into the cart and bring us out a good dinner. Meet us in the swamp at the old bee-tree. Put in plenty of sandwiches, for we shall be hungry. That’s all, Sam.”
The negro disappears, and Walter again picks up his book, while the rest of the Club resume the various occupations in which they had been engaged, and which this conversation had interrupted.
That curly-headed, blue-eyed boy standing in front of the fire-place, working upon the lock of his rifle, which is out of order, is Eugene Gaylord, who has probably performed as many exploits, and been the hero of as many school-scrapes, as any fellow of his age in the country. He is a small edition of his Uncle Dick, noisy and good-natured, and seems to be literally brimming over with fun.
There are three other members of the Club, whom we have not yet introduced. They are Phil Perkins, Jasper Babcock and Fred Craven. They live in Bellville, and have come up with their horses and hounds to spend the holidays at the Gaylord mansion. The former (who always answers to the name of “Perk”), although he is quick to learn and has always occupied a respectable position in his class, is not much of a boy for books; but he is quite at home in studying up plans for mischief, and can carry them out, too, as well as his friend Eugene. He is the best gymnast at the Academy, and can hold out a thirty-five pound dumb-bell in each hand. He is a good oarsman, is fond of sailing, and during the regattas always assists Walter and Eugene in handling the Banner. Jasper Babcock (commonly called “Bab”) has more than once demonstrated his ability to beat any boy at the Academy in pulling a single-scull race, and can boast that he owns the swiftest yacht about Bellville. Another accomplishment in which he cannot be beaten is in making a standing high jump. He can place a pole at the height of his chin from the ground, and spring over it with the greatest ease, alighting on the other side like a fallen feather. These two boys are sitting with a board between them, engaged in a game of backgammon. They are both experts and rivals; and although they have been playing for years—almost ever since they first became acquainted—the question of superiority is not yet decided.
Fred Craven, the coxswain of the Spray, and secretary of the Sportsman’s Club, is a year older than Walter and scarcely more than half as large. He is a jolly little fellow, a great favorite with everybody, except Bayard Bell and his crowd, and always answers to the name of “Featherweight.” He is a good bat and short-stop, sails his own yacht, is Vice Commodore of the Academy squadron, and his record as a student is excellent. No one ever suspects him of being in a scrape, and his influence goes a long way toward keeping such wild fellows as Perk and Eugene within bounds. He now sits poring over his Virgil, and, like Walter, is so deeply interested in his book that he does not hear the rattle of the checkers or the conversation kept up by the other members of the Club.
There is another occupant of the room that we must not forget to speak of, for he bears a somewhat important part in our story. It is Rex, the Irish greyhound which lies stretched out on the rug in front of the fire. The dog always sleeps in the same apartment with Walter, who is the only one he acknowledges as his master, and whom he accompanies wherever he goes. He does other things, too, that we shall tell of by and by.
The hours fly rapidly when one is agreeably employed, and it was ten o’clock before the boys knew it. Long before that time Eugene had finished repairing his rifle and getting all his accoutrements ready for the hunt on the morrow, and after trying different plans for his amusement, such as reading, watching the game of backgammon, and teasing Rex, he picked up his flute. He was a good performer, and when he confined himself to music, the Club never grew tired of listening to him; but on this occasion, being possessed with his usual spirit of mischief, he imitated the squealing of pigs, the cackling of hens, the creaking of wagons, and produced other doleful sounds that were enough to drive one distracted. Walter endured it, and so did Perk and Bab. The former, with his feet stretched out straight before him, his chin resting on his breast, his eyebrows elevated, and both hands tightly clasping his book, read on all unmindful of what was going on around him, and the others rattled their pieces and talked and played without paying any heed to the noise; but the nervous little Featherweight, finding it impossible to construe his Latin with such a din ringing in his ears, raised a cry of remonstrance.
“I say! Hold on there!” he exclaimed. “What will you take to leave off torturing that flute and go to bed?”