AN INTERRUPTED SUPPER
“Wasn’t it great?” demanded Bill.
“All to the lalapalooza!” was Cap’s opinion.
“I thought sure McNibb would hear us snickering when we pulled the
strings and upset the paint,” added Pete.
“And what a sight Mersfeld and North were!” remarked Whistle-Breeches.
“They must have looked like walking complexion advertisements when the
lights were turned on.”
“I wonder if they’ll be fired?” spoke Bob Chapin. “I wouldn’t like
that.”
“Hu! That’s probably what they wanted to happen to us!” cut in
Whistle-Breeches. “It’s a case of chicken eat turkey I reckon, and
everybody have cranberries.”
“They didn’t actually _do_ anything,” went on Bill, as he and his
brothers and chums were talking over the affair next morning. “The
evidence only pointed to them as if they were _going_ to do it.”
“That’s enough for McNibb,” commented Cap. “Great monkey doodles! There
goes last bell and I’ve got to look over my Pindar yet. Holy mackerel!”
The whole school was buzzing with the news, and it was soon generally
known that the Smith boys had neatly turned the tables on the plotters.
As for those worthies, the events had followed each other so rapidly
that they hardly knew what to think, much less say or do. It was a
complete surprise to them, and they dared not utter a word as to what
their real intentions had been.
As Cap had said, the circumstantial evidence was enough against
them. They had been caught, if not exactly with the paint in their
possession, at least with it all over them, and the anonymous letter
was enough to declare their object, albeit that screed was intended to
throw suspicions on others.
“Have you anything to say?” the proctor had asked them when he had them
in his sanctum.
“I—er—I guess not,” answered North, with a glance at his pink-stained
clothing.
“How about you, Mersfeld?”
“I—I don’t know, it was not our intention—Oh, well, I guess I have
nothing to say, either,” and the pitcher gave up the attempt.
“Very well. You may go. I’ll take your case up with the faculty.”
The two lads were in an agony of apprehension lest they be expelled, or
suspended for the remainder of the term, but after a faculty meeting,
in which Dr. Burton had made a plea for them, it was decided to debar
both lads from participation in all athletic or other sports for a
month, to stop all evening leave for the same period, and to inflict
other punishment in the matter of doing extra classical study.
The fact that they had not actually committed any overt act of
sacrilege against the statue was in their favor, though, as the
proctor said, only the receipt of the anonymous letter prevented it.
And how Mersfeld and his crony writhed in agony as they thought of the
letter they had themselves written! They guessed that their plot had
been laid bare, and they suspected Bob Chapin, who, fearing punishment,
spoke to the Smith boys about it. Then, on Cap’s suggestion, and in
order that the truth might be known, a statement of how it had all come
about was drawn up and sent to the two plotters.
“That’s the last time I try any of _your_ tricks,” said Mersfeld
bitterly to North.
“Get out! Weren’t you as hot for it as I was? Why don’t you think of
something yourself then, if you’re so smart?”
“I will—next time,” and the two parted not the best of friends.
The barring of Mersfeld from the diamond took him off the Varsity team
for the time being, though he was still considered a member of it, even
if he could not play. He was allowed to take part in practice games,
however, for Captain Graydon and Coach Windam well knew the value of
keeping some box men in reserve.
“No telling when Smith will develop a glass arm or go up in the air, or
get wild,” said Graydon.
“No, but he’s doing well now,” declared the coach. “He pitched a
no-hit-no-run game in a five inning practice the other day.”
“That’s too good to last. We’ve got to hold on to Mersfeld, and work up
some one else.”
“Sure. Mighty queer how the Smith boys turned that statue trick; eh?”
“Oh, those fellows aren’t greenhorns, if they did come from the
country. Wait until they get hold of the ropes here a little better,
and they’ll cut things loose.”
“Yes, and maybe they’ll be barred from the team.”
But our heroes showed no inclinations, at present, of doing anything
like that. They went on the even tenor of their ways, showed up
regularly at baseball practice, and had their lessons as well, perhaps,
as the average student. They did not “cut” more than the regulation
number of lectures, and they made many friends.
Bill kept on improving in his control and his curve work, until the
delighted coach and captain declared that they already had a good grip
on the pennant.
Several unimportant games were played, and one or two of the league
contests, in which the Westfield nine made about an even break. The
season was far from over, and he would indeed have been a wise prophet
who could have told who would win the pennant.
“I think even Duodecimo Donaldby, alias Tithonus Somnus himself would
be at a loss,” declared Cap. “But, fellows,” he went on, addressing his
two brothers, “keep up the good work. Make the name of ‘Smith’ a credit
to the school.”
“The only trouble is that there are so many Smiths that in ages to come
they won’t know which breed it was who did it,” complained Pete.
Mersfeld was bitter in his heart against our heroes, and was anxious
for revenge, but he and North had had a falling out, and he did not
know what he could do to get even with the Smith boys. Meanwhile he
sulked in his room, and thought mean thoughts.
“Say, fellows, do you know I think we ought to do something,” remarked
Bill to his brothers one day, as they came in tired but happy from the
diamond, after some hard practice. “It’s been dull lately.”
“Yes, let’s paint another statue,” remarked Cap grimly.
“Or put a cow in the physics class,” suggested Pete.
“No, but seriously, I think it’s up to us to do something,” went on
Bill. “We’ve got a lot of friends who expect things from us, and we
ought to keep up our reputation. What do you say that we give a little
spread? Dad sent me two fivers the other day.”
“You can’t give a spread for that,” declared Cap.
“I know it, but you fellows have some, and if you loosen up a bit—”
“Oh, count us in,” came quickly from Pete, “only how are you going to
do it? Hire a hall in town, and—”
“Oh, not that kind!” cried Bill quickly. “I mean a little midnight
supper up in our rooms. We can do it fine here, as we’re on the same
floor. It’s like one big room when the connecting doors are open.”
“We’d get caught sure as blazes,” observed Cap, “and you know our
reputations are none too good. I think McNibb suspects us of having
something to do with the statue game.”
“Why?” asked Bill.
“Oh, the other day he was up here, snooping around, and he saw a splash
of that pink paint on the wall. He went over to it right away, and
looked at it like Sherlock Holmes. I was in a nervous sweat, and I
thought he’d ask some questions, but he only said: ‘Ah, Smith, that
color has a powerful spreading ability; hasn’t it?’”
“And what did you say?” demanded Bill.
“What _could_ I say? Nothing. I just played safety and kept still, and
mighty glad I was that he didn’t ask any more. But as I say, I think he
suspects us, so we’ve got to be careful.”
“Oh, we can pull this off all right,” declared Bill. “I have a plan.”
“Tell it,” begged Whistle-Breeches. “Things are dull of late. Liven ’em
up.”
He had entered just in time to hear Bill’s last remark.
“Well, some big-gun from the other side, England or Germany, is coming
here next Friday night, to lecture on pedagogics or something like
that. The entire faculty is going, I understand, and only McNibb and
the janitors will be on hand. Besides that, the Seniors have some sort
of a legitimate blow out, and there’s the Junior concert. So things
will be quiet around here, and we can just as well as not have our
spread. What do you say, fellows?”
“I’m for it—here’s my cash,” answered Pete, passing over some bills.
“Ditto,” added Cap, following suit.
“Say, fellows, I’m broke,” put in Bob Chapin, who looked in at that
juncture, “but if there’s anything like that going on, count me in.”
“Me too!” cried Whistle-Breeches.
“This is strictly on the Smith boys,” declared Bill. “It’s to
celebrate our second childhood, or something like that. Well, I’ll go
ahead with the arrangements.”
On the Friday night in question there might have been seen a number of
figures—dark, stealthy figures—stealing, one at a time, toward the
dormitory where the Smith boys lived and moved and had their being. Yet
not a gleam of light shone from their windows, for Bill had bought some
black roofing paper and tacked it over the casements.
“It makes it warm,” he said, “but it’s safer.”
The good things had been bought, and some boards to be covered with
newspapers and laid on the beds were to serve for tables. As the lights
were turned off at a certain hour, save in the corridor, candles had
been procured.
“At last all was in readiness,” as they say in novels. The guests
had assembled and were gathered about the banquet table. No one had
been caught, as yet, for Bill had laid his plans well, and all of
the faculty, some of whom might otherwise have been prowling about
the school, were listening to a very deep lecture on how to impart
knowledge to boys, by a man who had never had any. As for Proctor
McNibb, he had so many extra duties on his hands that he did not go
near the Freshmen’s dormitory until quite late.
This gave our heroes and their friends the lack of attention which they
much desired. There was a goodly crowd present, when Whistle-Breeches,
who had been named as toastmaster, arose, and with a bottle of ginger
ale in one hand, and a cheese sandwich in the other, proposed:
“Those Smith boys! May we always have ’em with us!”
“Hear! Hear!” cried Wendell Borden, in a dull, monotonous voice.
Wendell had read that this was what Englishmen said at banquets, and
his father had come from England.
“Less noise!” ordered Bill. “Do you want to have the place pulled, and
all of us pinched? Go on and eat!”
They fell-to, and there was merry feasting, even if the jests did have
to be passed around in whispers, losing thereby much of their wit.
“Now, fellows,” began Bob Chapin, as he rose and held out a bottle of
lemon soda, “let me propose—”
There was a knock on the door—a knock as of one having authority.
A sudden hush fell upon the assemblage.
“Answer, Bill, Cap—some of you,” whispered Whistle-Breeches nervously.
“What’ll I say?” demanded Bill.
The knock was repeated.
“Ask whose there,” suggested Bob.
“Who—who’s—there?” stammered Bill, as though it cost him an effort.
“It is I—Mr. McNibb. Are there any persons in your room besides
yourselves?”
“Ye—yes,” stammered Bill. Lying was not permitted by the school honor
code.
“Open the door!” came the command.
Bill looked appealingly around. Some of the boys made motions as though
to dive under the beds.
“Face the music!” ordered Cap sharply, for he detested sneaking tactics.
“Open the door,” came the command again, in stern tones.
There was no choice but to obey, and Bill arose to draw the bolts.
He slowly opened the portal, and, as it swung back the banqueters
peered forward to behold the smiling countenances of Ward and Merton,
two of the biggest seniors in the school.