“Fellows, this sort of thing’s all new to me. I—well, it’s taken all the ginger out of me. I feel like a—a——”
“Like a rag?” Sam suggested.
Varley nodded. “That’s it! Like a rag, and a wet rag, to boot.”
Poke wagged his head solemnly. “I know! Been there myself. Sort of gets you here——” and he laid a hand on his stomach.
“That’s just it! It isn’t exactly as if you were hungry, but like it, somehow.”
Sam, the practical, pulled out his watch, and whistled softly.
“Whew! No wonder you chaps feel that way. It’s twenty minutes to twelve.”
“And dinner’s six or seven miles away!” gasped Poke.
“Nearer eight.”
This time Poke didn’t gasp; he groaned. “I see where somebody I know gets mighty unpopular at our house. Confound fussy folks, anyway!”