Some were smoking, others chatting, some mending their clothes, which in these days of strenuous work were often in need of repair, while one or two by the light of candles were writing letters to the folks at home.
Billy, seated on a stool, was strumming a banjo which had been his solace many a time while he was stationed on the Mexican border and which now was doing duty in France.
"Hit 'er up, Billy," said Bart, lazily. "We don't mind being miserable if it gives you any comfort."
"Quit your knocking," grinned Billy. "You know you're just dying to hear it. What do you fellows want—the Moonlight Sonata or something else simple like that?"
"That's too high class for this bunch," said Tom. "Though there's plenty of moonlight outside," he added, as he looked out the window.
"I've had all the outside I want for one day," said Frank. "I'd just as soon stay where I am." He was penning a letter to his mother, telling her of many things that had happened, and stating that, so far, he had not had a chance to learn anything about his grandfather's estate.
"Well, I'm waiting," said Billy. "What does the gang want? Jazz band music? That's about your style."
"No, give us something that sounds like home," said Tom. "Some of those southern melodies."
"Yes," urged Bart. "You're a dabster at that, Billy."
"All right," said Billy, cheerfully. "Anything to oblige."