“You came prepared, didn’t you?” asked Holly Cross. “Here, let me give you an imitation of a soph,” and he held out the decorated hat, though the gaily decorated band could not be seen in the darkness, and pretending to regard it with horror, minced along like some grotesque dancer on the stage.
“Good! good!” cried his fellows.
“That’s the stuff, Holly, old chap!” remarked Phil. “We’ll have you in the next play.”
“Why don’t you fellows run the colors up on the flag pole?” proposed a lad who had stood watching the fun.
“That’s it, Jerry Jackson!” exclaimed Sid. “Good idea.”
“I’m not Jerry, I’m Joe,” replied the Jersey twin.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” went on Sid. “Say, you two ought to wear labels. We’re always getting you mixed up.”
Amid much laughter and joking a long streamer of yellow and maroon was fastened to the halyards and run up to the truck. Langridge had the colors with him, anticipating a victory.
“We ought to have a parade now,” suggested Fenton. “My uncle says——”