“Laugh!” commanded Merton sternly.
“Laugh!” ordered Ward sharply.
It was instruction that could not be disobeyed, for the Freshmen, under certain circumstances, were by the unwritten, but none the less stringent rules of the school, bound to do certain things commanded by their class superiors. Thereupon there ensued a series of snickers, more or less forced.
“Not so loud!” ordered Merton. “Or you will have McNibb here. Sorry if we gave you fellows heart-failure, but we smelled out this little feed, and thought we’d better show you how easy it is to get caught. Pass the cheese.”
“And I’ll have some of those pickled lambs tongues,” added Ward. “I say, boys, you do know how to get up a grub-fest. Who’s doing?”
“The Smith boys,” murmured Whistle-Breeches.
“Might have known,” declared Merton. “Say, you fellows are cutting things loose at Westfield. Well, it’s good for the old school. Here, Ward, are some prime macaroons.”
The seniors helped themselves and each other to what was best on the table, making more or less funny remarks, while their unwilling hosts looked on, not daring, because of another unwritten law, to eat with them.
“Here, get busy, you fellows,” ordered Ward. “Pass things up toward this end. We’re hungry, and it isn’t often that you have two noble Roman senators to grace your banquets. Get busy.”
“What appetites!” murmured Cap in whispered admiration. “I thought I could eat, but they have me beaten a mile.”