“Those Smith boys! May we always have ’em with us!”
“Hear! Hear!” cried Wendell Borden, in a dull, monotonous voice. Wendell had read that this was what Englishmen said at banquets, and his father had come from England.
“Less noise!” ordered Bill. “Do you want to have the place pulled, and all of us pinched? Go on and eat!”
They fell-to, and there was merry feasting, even if the jests did have to be passed around in whispers, losing thereby much of their wit.
“Now, fellows,” began Bob Chapin, as he rose and held out a bottle of lemon soda, “let me propose—”
There was a knock on the door—a knock as of one having authority.
A sudden hush fell upon the assemblage.
“Answer, Bill, Cap—some of you,” whispered Whistle-Breeches nervously.
“What’ll I say?” demanded Bill.
The knock was repeated.