THE FRESHMEN DANCE
“Here, quit!” cried Sid, making an effort to pull back the coverings on which Tom was yanking. “Let a fellow alone, can’t you? Quit fooling! This is no freshman’s room!”
“Get out, you old duffer!” yelled Phil. “The place is on fire!”
“Who’s on the wire?” asked Sid, thinking some one had called him on the telephone. “I don’t care who it is. I’m not going to answer this time of night. I want to sleep. Tell ’em to call up again.”
“Fire! Fire! Not wire!” shouted Tom in his ear, and this time Sid heard and was fully awake. He caught a glimpse of the clouds of lurid smoke pouring in from the corridor.
“Jumping Johnnie cake! I should say it was a fire!” he cried. “Come on, fellows, let’s get some of our stuff out! I want my football pictures,” and with that Sid rushed to the wall and yanked down the only bit of ornamentation he cared for—a lithograph of a Rugby scrimmage. “Come on!” he yelled, grabbing up a pile of his clothes from a chair. “This is all I want. Let the books and other stuff go!”
“But the sofa! The chair!” cried Tom, who had peered out into the hall, only to jump back again, gasping and choking. “We can chuck them out of the window.”
“That’s right. Can’t hurt ’em much,” added Phil, who was getting into his trousers.
“Grab hold, then. But wait until I button my vest,” ordered Tom, who was fumbling with the garment, the only one he had grabbed up. He had switched on the electric light, and the gleam shone through a cloud of the reddish smoke. “What’s the matter with this blamed thing, anyhow?” he cried, as he fumbled in vain for the buttons.
“You’ve got it on backwards!” cried Sid, who had tossed his clothes out of the window, following them with the picture, and was now ready to help his chums.