“Never mind, as long as it wasn’t McNibb. They’re welcome to all that’s left—we had a good share,” spoke Bill.
The Seniors seemed to be having a good time, but they could not keep on eating, and even in their hearts was the fear lest they be caught. So, with a mock farewell, they took their departure, promising to send some of their fellows around to enjoy the feast of good things.
But no more of the fourth-year men arrived, due to the fact, probably, that the meeting at which were the entire faculty, was nearly at an end, and soon the college and the grounds would be infested by professors. Then, too McNibb might come around at any moment.
“Hurry, fellows,” suggested Bill and his brothers. “Eat what’s left and then cut out of here. It might be McNibb next time.”
“Say, I thought it was all up with us, when that knock came,” remarked Pete.
“Same here,” added Whistle-Breeches. “Are there any stuffed olives left?”
“Nary a one,” answered Cap. “Those chaps stuffed themselves on ’em.”
“Stuffed Seniors instead of stuffed olives,” observed Bill grimly.
The feast was over, the remains cleared away and, one by one, or in couples, the guests departed, with intervals between the leavings, so that too much noise might not be created.
The last one had gone—the room was in fairly good shape, albeit bottles and cans had been piled into closets until the recesses were almost overflowing—there to stay until such time as they could be smuggled out.