"I've been telling March here that it is his bounden duty to go to the station," announced West to the table at large.
"Of course it is," answered Cooke and Cartwright and Somers, and two others whose names Joel did not catch. "The wealth, beauty, and fashion will attend in a body," continued Cooke, a stout, good-natured-looking boy of about nineteen, who, as Joel afterward learned, was universally acknowledged to be the dullest scholar in school. "Patriotism and--er--school spirit, you know, March, demand it." And Cooke helped himself bountifully to West's cherished bottle of catsup.
"This is Remsen's last year as coach, you see," explained West, as he rescued the catsup. "I believe every fellow feels that we ought to show our appreciation of his work by turning out in force. It's the least we can do, I think. Mind you, I don't fancy football a little bit, but Remsen taught us to win from St. Eustace last year, and any one that helps down Eustace is all right and deserves the gratitude of the school and all honest folk."
"Hear! hear!" cried Somers.
"I'd like very well to go," said Joel, "but I've got a recitation at two." Cooke looked across at him sorrowfully.
"Are you going in for study?" he asked.
"I'm afraid so," answered Joel laughingly.
"My boy, don't do it. There's nothing gained. I've tried it, and I speak from sad experience."
"But how do you get through?" questioned Joel.
"I will tell you." The stout youth leaned over and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "I belong to the same society as 'Wheels,' and he doesn't dare expel me."