“Thunder!” yelled Don, suddenly leaping up and dancing around the table.
“What?” cried the others, in a breath.
“Where’s the water? All the mustard in those pickles got on top and—” He buried his face in the pitcher that Dave held out.
“Serves you right,” grinned Wayne. “Had no business tasting things.”
“I like your cheek,” said Don indignantly. “You’ve been sitting there eating biscuits for five minutes. Look, Dave, he’s eaten the whole top layer off!”
“Pig!” cried Dave, and rescued the tin, placing it on the table, where it was flanked by sheets of writing paper in lieu of dishes holding potted duck, mince tarts, a pineapple cheese, and preserved figs, the latter overflowing in sticky streams on to the table top.
“What’ll we crack the nuts with, Dave?” asked Don.
“Nuts? Find one of Paddy’s football brogans in the closet. Crack ’em on the hearth and stuff the shells in Paddy’s bed. Too late, though—he’s coming, and he’s got some one with him. Let’s welcome ’em.”
Paddy and Greene entered amid a fusillade of walnuts and cork stoppers, and by concerted action ran Dave into a closet and turned the key on him.
“Are you It?” asked Don eagerly.