A fellow stuck his head out of one of the bedroom doors and pointing across the hall-way to the main room with a long, bright deer-knife, said, "Come in, Tom, I'll be there in a moment." He rubbed perspiration from his brow with the back of the hand which held a lemon and disappeared into the bedroom.
"Yea-a-a!" cried several voices as Tucker pushed back the portière and stood in the door-way. "Come in, Tommy," they said. "Come in, Symington," said one of the fellows that knew the prep.
"Fellows, this is my friend Symington, the prep.'" said Tucker; "Symington, this is de gang." Tucker tossed his cap and Symington's gracefully into the scrap-basket and pushed Charlie into a seat on the sofa. A fellow with spectacles began asking him what he thought of the afternoon's game. The prep. did not know the man's name, but that did not matter.
There were about a dozen fellows scattered about the room, but the thing that attracted Symington's attention was in the centre of it.
Two square-topped desks had been placed end to end. On these lay a table-cloth, or rather some sheets, and on them was stacked a pile of things good to look at and better to eat. The only reason the food did not immediately become part of the dozen fellows was because they were waiting with watering mouths for something to wash it down with. And this was being prepared as rapidly as Randolph and Ashley in the bedroom could do it. Perhaps they were trying to do it too rapidly, for Symington heard a voice exclaim, "Aw, look out, you ass, you're spilling it all over my bed."
While they were waiting, Dougal Davis and Reddy Armstrong and Harry Lawrence and Jim Linton and others came in. When the lounge, window-seat, chairs, tables, and coal-scuttle became crowded, the new-comers sat on the floor.
Presently the introductory strains of Mendelssohn's "Wedding March" came from the bedroom, followed by Randy and Dad Ashley and two assistants bearing aloft two basins, which seemed to be heavy. They strode in, swinging their feet far out in front in a stagey manner to the tune of the "Wedding March" which they shouted with their heads thrown back.
Hunter Ramsay jumped up and marched behind them. The rest thought this a good idea and did likewise, and all sang loud and stamped hard and made the poler growl in the room below, which did no good. Then after marching twice around the table they carefully set the bowls down at either end of it with the ice tinkling against the sides. One of the bowl-bearers remarked, "Maybe you don't think those things are heavy."
"Now then!" said Stehman the tackle, approaching the table. "Ah!" said Symington's friend Tucker. The others may have said things also. If they did not they looked them.
No one waited to be asked. Everyone was supposed to know without being told what was the object of white breasts of cold chicken with russet-brown skin, and rich Virginia ham with spices sticking in the golden-brown outside fat, and little, thin, home-made sandwiches and olives and jellies, Virginia jellies, you know, and beaten biscuit and chocolate cake and fruit cake, or black cake, as they call it in the South. As a matter of fact they all did seem to know, and this included Symington, who held his own with the others very well for a little prep. boy in training. He had forgotten to be sleepy now.