“Come right in,” Ed said, finally, “and help yourself. Have you had your grape fruit?”
“Oh, no,” sighed Tom Black, “I didn’t feel exactly right this morning.” (He brushed a brown hand across his brow.) “Nerves, I guess.”
“Nerves? Grub!” shouted Jack. “Didn’t I see a can marked ‘soup’ in your back yard this a. m.?”
“Might have, but I didn’t. Else I would have had soup.”
“There were grubbers around last night,” went on Jack, “and we thought we found a thread that matches your sweater, sticking to a nail in our grub box.”
“My sweater is not ripped that I can see,” replied Tom, innocently, “but if you are so kind I might take it. Don’t think we put our sewing boxes in the kit, come to think of it.”
“It will be ripped presently,” announced Ed. “We have reason to suspect the Cattle; in fact, we have engaged counsel.”
“The motor girls, I fancy, will defend you,” said Tom, nonchalantly, “but I assure you, you will have no case. We are absolutely without grub; in fact, our case is pitiable.”
“And you had a ‘Doins’ last night,” Dray reminded him. “Now, Tom, we want to be fair, but we have arranged to form a housewives’ league for the purpose of swiping systematically. For instance,” (here he got a burnt match and tried to trace something on the oilcloth), “if we have company, and no olives, we could go over to your cupboard, take a bottle and deposit in its stead, say, a can of beans.”
“Great!” shouted Tom, tossing up his cap, that landed on the flaming oil stove. “You should not waste oil,” he said, as he rescued the cap. “It’s always wise to turn out the stove when you take off the pan.”