“I’m for it—here’s my cash,” answered Pete, passing over some bills.
“Ditto,” added Cap, following suit.
“Say, fellows, I’m broke,” put in Bob Chapin, who looked in at that juncture, “but if there’s anything like that going on, count me in.”
“Me too!” cried Whistle-Breeches.
“This is strictly on the Smith boys,” declared Bill. “It’s to celebrate our second childhood, or something like that. Well, I’ll go ahead with the arrangements.”
On the Friday night in question there might have been seen a number of figures—dark, stealthy figures—stealing, one at a time, toward the dormitory where the Smith boys lived and moved and had their being. Yet not a gleam of light shone from their windows, for Bill had bought some black roofing paper and tacked it over the casements.
“It makes it warm,” he said, “but it’s safer.”
The good things had been bought, and some boards to be covered with newspapers and laid on the beds were to serve for tables. As the lights were turned off at a certain hour, save in the corridor, candles had been procured.
“At last all was in readiness,” as they say in novels. The guests had assembled and were gathered about the banquet table. No one had been caught, as yet, for Bill had laid his plans well, and all of the faculty, some of whom might otherwise have been prowling about the school, were listening to a very deep lecture on how to impart knowledge to boys, by a man who had never had any. As for Proctor McNibb, he had so many extra duties on his hands that he did not go near the Freshmen’s dormitory until quite late.
This gave our heroes and their friends the lack of attention which they much desired. There was a goodly crowd present, when Whistle-Breeches, who had been named as toastmaster, arose, and with a bottle of ginger ale in one hand, and a cheese sandwich in the other, proposed: