“Beefsteak on the grill!”
Thus the lads, waiting for the one who had stopped to admire the fine view, chanted their desires in the way of food.
“Come on!” finally called one in disgust, and, with a half sigh of regret, Andy walked on to join his mates.
“What’s getting into you lately?” demanded Chet Anderson, a bit petulantly. “You stand mooning around, you don’t hear when you’re spoken to, and you don’t go in for half the fun you used to.”
“Are you sick? Or is it a—girl?” queried Ben Snow, laughing.
“Both the same!” observed Frank Newton, cynically.
“Listen to the old dinkbat!” exclaimed Tom Hatfield. “You’d think he knew all about the game! You never got a letter from a girl in your life, Frank!”
“I didn’t, eh? That’s all you know about it,” and Frank made an unsuccessful effort to punch his tormentor.
“Well, if we’re going on to Churchtown and have a bit of grub in Kelly’s, let’s hoof it!” suggested Chet. “You can eat; can’t you, Andy? Haven’t lost your appetite; have you, looking at that blooming view?”
“No, indeed. But you fellows don’t seem to realize that in another month we’ll never see it again, unless we come back to Milton for a visit.”