That evening, according to custom, the nine banqueted in the New Dining Hall behind tightly closed doors. The New Dining Hall was not as grand as its name sounded, being only a smaller room opening from the main hall and used chiefly at graduation time to accommodate the overflow of visiting relatives and friends. The banquet was the regular school supper, with the substitution of steak for cold meats and the addition of ice cream and cake. But it isn’t food alone that constitutes a banquet; without companionship and good spirits the most elaborate repast in the world fails to deserve that title. To-night good spirits were rampant, and companionship was a drug on the market, for hadn’t they all worked together for three months with just one end in view, and hadn’t that end been attained? Dolph said something to that effect in his speech and the affirmative answer was so loud and enthusiastic that the boys in the main dining hall laughed in sympathy and cheered joyously, an infraction of the regulations which the instructors forebore to notice.
The banquet was practically over; only Sam and Joe Williams still nibbled with fast failing courage at their third helpings of ice cream; the speeches had been made and the only formality remaining was the election of a new captain. But there was no hurry about that. Every one of the twenty-two boys who lined the two long tables were supremely contented. I was going to say supremely comfortable, but Sam’s countenance was assuming an expression rendering the selection of that word inadvisable. At the head of one of the tables sat Dolph, at the head of the other Mr. Shay. The coach leaned back in his chair resisting nobly, in deference to a rule of deportment which he knew of but was not in the habit of heeding, a desire to bring into use the toothpick reposing in his vest pocket. Mr. Shay was not in sympathy with the ban on the public display of that useful implement, but he believed in the wisdom of the advice, “When in Rome do as the Romans do.” As Rome wasn’t using toothpicks this evening, he sighed and heroically removed his fingers from tempting contact. Sam finally laid down his spoon, gazed wistfully at the remaining portion of ice cream and gave his attention to the conversation going on around him.
“Three errors was all we made,” Milton Wales was declaring emphatically. “And Chase made four.”
“We each made four,” corrected Gus Turnbull. “I don’t think that’s so bad, though, do you, Mr. Shay?”
“No, but it’s four too many.”
“Where do you get four?” asked Wales impatiently. “You made one and Harry made one——”
“I sure did,” groaned Smythe.
“And Jack Borden made one. Where’s your fourth?”
“Sam’s wild throw to second,” answered Gus.