“Well, what of it?”
“Some can do that sort of thing, but not I.” The former dispenser of soda-water spoke in plaintive tones. “Half the time I can’t think of the words I want and when I do think of ’em they’re not the right ones.”
“Oh, what you need is a correspondence school course in the art of self-expression—‘think on your feet; latent power aroused; trial lesson free; send no money,’” chuckled Jack.
“Let’s hear about the club,” said Don.
“It meets in a typical little inn called the Café Rochambeau. The floor is of sanded brick; there are cobwebs everywhere; cats and dogs wander in and out. It’s all rustic, dusty and charming. Say, George, have supper at our mess to-night, then, afterward, you and Don can travel over with the bunch.”
“Thanks! I’ll be delighted,” said George.
The four soon reached the commissary depot. Attendants dragged from its generous supply of stores the necessary portions of the bed and delivered them to the boys. Quite naturally, the march back, hampered as they were by the cumbersome articles, did not prove to be agreeable. Finally, however, rather hot and tired, they reached the Hotel d’Amerique.
It took but a few minutes to put the rude contrivance called a bed together in its place alongside the wall, and by this time the crowd was being considerably augmented by the students returning from the piste.
“Come along, you chaps! I’ll pilot you to the grub department,” exclaimed Peur Jamais. “It won’t make you think of the Waldorf Astoria.”
“Never mind! They’ve got things on the menu the Waldorf hasn’t,” chuckled Gene Shannon.