“Come on!” was the order.
There was a rush of feet, and presently the room cleared.
“Next time don’t be so—fresh!” came tauntingly from Weston, as he followed his mates.
“Water—water!” begged Joe, for his eyes seemed on fire.
“Hold on, old man—steady,” came from Spike. “What is it?”
“Something in my eyes. I can’t see!”
“The paste and mush I expect. Rotten trick. Wait a minute and I’ll sponge you off. Oh, but we’re sights!”
Presently Joe felt the cooling liquid, and the pain went from him. He could open his eyes and look about. Their room was in disorder, but, considering the fierceness of the scrimmage, little damage had been done.
But the lads themselves, when they glanced at each other, could not repress woeful expressions, followed by laughs of dismay, for truly they were in a direful plight. Smeared with paste that made their hair stand up like the quills of a fretful porcupine, their shirts streaked with it, they were indeed weird looking objects. Paste was on their faces, half covering their noses. It stuffed up their ears and their eyes stared out from a mask of it like burned holes in a blanket.
“Oh, but you are a sight!” exclaimed Spike.