“All I can think of is supper,” replied Dan, with a laugh.
“Your soul’s in your tummy,” said Alf, disgustedly. “Well, leave it to me. If I can think of something, are you in on it? Something big—and—er—awe-inspiring?”
“Sure,” answered Dan. “Go ahead and think. I’m off to commons.”
I fear there wasn’t much studying done at Yardley that evening. A spirit of unrest had seized the fellows, and there was much coming and going across the Yard and in the dormitory corridors. There were trunks to be brought from the storerooms, and loaned articles to be recovered, and, in some cases, debts to be settled. Every one made at least one call that evening. Some fellows, possessed by an excess of sociability, seemed determined to visit every friend and acquaintance in school. As for the morrow, well, it was a well-known fact that instructors were lenient on the last day of a term, and one could always manage to “fake” a bit if necessary.
In 7 Dudley a council of conspirators was going on. Callers there had found a locked portal and no response to their demands. The conspirators were Tom, Alf, and Dan. Alf was speaking.
“We’ve been ridiculously well-behaved all term,” he was saying, “and now I think we deserve a little fun. Besides, what’s the good of a secret society that never does anything?”
“It would be fun, all right,” said Dan, “but it’s a long way to go to get it.”
“Yes,” drawled Tom, “and if faculty catches us, we’ll be soaked for it good and hard. Guess you can count me out on it, Alf.”
“Oh, don’t be a pup!” begged Alf. “Faculty isn’t going to catch us. Even if it did, what’s the odds? It isn’t anything but a perfectly good joke; absolutely harmless. I’ll bet all the others will be crazy to go.”
“Crazy to go, yes,” answered Tom, ambiguously. “You’ll have plenty without me. I don’t want to get in wrong just now and be kept off the Track Team, thank you.”