“I think,” said Sandy, as Molly disappeared, “that the—the cuisine at our club is very satisfactory, fellows.”
“Yes,” drawled Spud, “the new French chef is doing very well. I think the house committee should be complimented. Oh, see who’s here!”
Molly returned with a big yellow bowl filled with golden brown cookies and passed them around.
“I can smell the granilla,” said Spud. “Granilla’s my favorite scent. Say, they’re simply swell, Molly. You tell that cook that she’s the best cookie cook I ever listened to.”
“Cut it out, Spud,” commanded Sandy. “You talk too much.”
“All right. You talk for a while. I’m going to be too busy.”
The club continued in session until the last cookie had vanished and the afternoon shadows were slanting across the lawn outside. Then West House, surfeited with cakes and apples, said good-by to their hostess and went home to supper!
Neither Cal nor Ned were very demonstrative and so their reconciliation was a seemingly matter-of-course event attended by no outward manifestations of satisfaction. Boys of their age haven’t much use for what they call “gush,” and the nearest approach to this occurred on Sunday night when, returning to their room after the usual Sunday night concert in the Tomb, Ned “squared off” at Cal, feinted and then landed a vigorous punch on his chest that sent him reeling backward on to his bed.
“You old chump,” said Ned affectionately.
But the next instant he evidently concluded that even that might be construed as “gush” and so thrust his hands into his pockets, turned his back and whistled carelessly. Cal grinned and picked himself up.