At ten minutes past twelve, a red-armed servant girl made her appearance at the back door looking out on the playground, and rang a huge dinner bell. The boys dropped their games, and made what haste they could to the dining room.
“Now for a feast!” said Wilkins to Hector, significantly.
“Does Mr. Smith furnish good board?” asked Hector, for he felt the hunger of a healthy boy who had taken an early breakfast.
“Good grub?” said Wilkins, making a face. “Wait till you see. Old Sock isn’t going to ruin himself providing his pupils with the delicacies of the season.”
“I’m sorry for that. I am confoundedly hungry.”
“Hungry!” exclaimed Wilkins. “I’ve been I hungry ever since I came here.”
“Is it as bad as that?” asked Hector, rather alarmed.
“I should say so. I haven’t had a square meal—what I call a square meal—for four weeks, and that’s just the time since I left home.”
They had reached the door of the dining-room by this time.
In the center stood a long table, but there didn’t seem to be much on it except empty plates. At a side table stood Mrs. Smith, ladling out soup from a large tureen.