The captain took the paper and read it.
“Haven’t you put it pretty strong?” he asked.
“It’s got to be strong,” was the reply, “or we won’t get the holiday.”
Plumpy, the fat boy, waddled hastily toward the group, crying out in his falsetto voice: “A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a mule!”
“Plumpy wants a mule!” shouted Patchy, hilariously. “What you want a mule for, Plumpy?”
“To cross the raging Helles-py-ont and picnic in the groves of doodle dell,” responded Plumpy, in mock heroics.
“Oh, shut up!” cried some one, but Plumpy continued: “Why, then, without a mule, I’ll swim the raging flood me selluf to bask—”
“Oh, shut up! shut up!” sounded a chorus of voices. “Put him out! Sit on him!”
This last suggestion was promptly acted on; a half-dozen lads pounced on the unfortunate fat boy, dragged him to the floor, rolled him over and over like a bulging barrel, and smothered his squeals by placing their combined weight on his elastic body. But they did not hurt him. Indeed, it seemed almost impossible by any course of treatment to give Plumpy more than the suggestion of physical pain.