“The moon o’er yonder hilltop rises, a silver disk, like unto a warrior’s shield, whereon he, from raging battle coming, is either carried upon it, or bears it proudly as——”
“Oh for cats’ sake!” fairly yelled Frank Simpson, the Big Californian, as he had been dubbed. He shied his book full at Tom Parsons, catching him in the back, and bringing to a close the blank verse our hero was spouting, with a grunt that greatly marred it.
“Say, you fellows can’t appreciate anything decent!” shot back the lad at the window. “If I try to raise you above the level of the kindergarten class you are in deep water. I suppose I should have said: ‘Oh see the moon. Does the moon see me? The moon sees me. What a pretty moon!’ Bah! You make me tired. Here we have the most glorious night of the winter, with a full moon, snow on the ground to make it as light as day, a calm, perfect night——”
“Oh perfect night!” mocked Sid.
“Vandal!” hissed Tom.
“Go on! Hear Hear! Bravo!” cried Phil. “Let the noble Senator proceed!”
“Oh, for the love of mustard!” broke in the big lad who had tossed his book at Tom. “There’s no use trying to do any work with this mob. I’m going over to see Dutch Housenlager. He won’t spout blank verse when I want to bone, and that’s some comfort.”
“No, but he’ll want to get you into some horse-play, like tying knots in Proc. Zane’s socks, or running the flag up at half mast on the chapel,” declared Tom. “You had much better stay here, Frank. I’ve got something to propose.”
“There! I knew it!” cried Phil. “There’s a girl in it somewhere, or Tom would never be so poetical. Who is she, Tom? and when are you going to propose?”
“Oh, you fellows are worse than the measles,” groaned the lad who had been looking at the moonlight. “I’m done with you. I leave you to your fate.”