“Humph! He must have been pretty mad,” commented Morse.
“He was. Threatened arrest and all that. But Tom calmed him down,” said Jack with a chuckle. “I guess Skeel didn’t want to see the police very badly.”
“What gets me, though,” spoke George, in his perpetually questioning voice, “was what Skeel was doing around here.”
“I’d like to know that myself,” voiced Tom. But he was not to know until later, and then to his sorrow.
As the group of lads progressed, they were joined, from time to time, by other students from Elmwood, who had been out enjoying the day either by skating, coasting or sledding, and it was a merry party that approached the gate, or main entrance to the grounds, passing through the quadrangle of main buildings, and scattering to their various dormitories.
The holiday spirit was abroad. It was in the air – everywhere – the glorious spirit of Christmas, the day of which was not far distant. The boys seemed to know that the school discipline would be somewhat relaxed, though they did not take too much advantage of it.
Various engagements were made for surreptitious parties to meet here and there, to enjoy forbidden, and, therefore, all the more delightful, midnight lunches. The lads had been saving part of their allowances for some time, just for this occasion, and some had even arranged to bring away with them, from the refectory, some of their supper that night.
In due time a merry little party had gathered in the room of Bert Wilson in one of the larger and newer dormitories. The boys slid in, one by one, taking reasonable care not to meet with any prowling professor or monitor. But they knew that unless the rules were flagrantly violated, little punishment would be meted out. Each lad who came brought with him a more or less bulky package, until Bert’s room looked like the headquarters of some war, earthquake or flood-relief society, as Tom said.
“And are these the oranges George boasted of?” asked Jack, taking up one and sampling it.
“Aren’t they dandies?” demanded George.
“Whew! Oh, my! Who put orange skins on these lemons?” demanded Jack, making a wry face.
“Lemons?” faltered George, a look of alarm spreading over his expressive countenance.
“Lemons?” cried Tom. “Let me taste. Whew! I should say so,” he added. “They’re as sour as citric acid.”
“And he said they came from Indian River,” mocked Morse.
“Let’s throw ’em out the window,” proposed Joe Rooney.
“And him after them!” added Lew Bentfield.
“No, let’s save them to fire at Merry in chapel in the morning,” was another suggestion.
“I say, you fellows,” began the badgered one, “those oranges – ”
“They’re all right – the boys are only stringing you,” whispered Tom. “Don’t get on your ear.”
The advice came in good time. The arrival of other revelers turned the topic of conversation.
“Oh, here’s Hen Watson. What you got, Hen?”
“A cocoanut cake!” cried someone who looked in the box Hen carried. “Where’d you get that?”
“Bought it – where’d you s’pose?” asked Hen. “Here, keep your fingers out of that!” he cried, as Jack took a sample “punch” out of the top of the pastry.
“I wanted to see if it was real,” was the justifying answer.
“Oh, it’s real all right.”
“Here’s Sam Black. What you got, Sam?”
“Why, he’s all swelled up as though he had the mumps.”
Sam did indeed bulge on every side. He did not speak, but, entering the room, began to unload himself of bottled soda and root beer. From every pocket he took a bottle – two from some – and others from various nooks and corners of his clothes, until the bed was half covered with bottled delight.
“Say, that’s goin’ some!” murmured Jack enviously.
“It sure is,” agreed Tom. “We won’t die of thirst from my olives now,” for Tom had brought a generous supply of those among other things.
Someone leaned against the bed, and the bottles rolled together with many a clatter and clash.
“Easy there!” cautioned Bert. “Do you want to bring the whole building up here? Remember this isn’t the dining-hall. Go easy!”
“I didn’t mean to,” spoke George, the offending one.
Gradually the room filled, until it was a task to move about in it, but this was no detriment at all to the lads. Then in the dim light of a few shaded candles, for they did not want the glimmer of the electrics to disclose the affair to some watching monitor, the feast began.
It was eminently successful, and the viands disappeared as if by magic. The empty bottles were set aside so their accidental fall would not make too much noise.
Gradually jaws began to move more slowly up and down in the process of mastication, and tongues began to wag more freely, though in guarded tones.
“This sure is one great, little Christmas feed!” commented Jack.
“All to the horse-radish,” agreed Tom. “But it’s nothing to what we’ll have when we get up in the Adirondack camp, fellows. I wish you were all coming.”
“So do we!” chorused those who were not going, for various reasons.
“Hark! What’s that?” suddenly cried George. Instantly there was silence.
“Nothing but the wind,” said Tom. “Say, fellows,” he went on, “I have an idea.”
“Chain it!” advised Jack. “They’re rare birds these days.”
“Let’s hear what it is,” suggested Bert. “If it’s any good, we’ll do it.”
CHAPTER V
OFF TO CAMP
Tom Fairfield disposed himself comfortably on the bed before replying. There was room there, now, for the food and drink had been disposed of. Tom stretched out, finished a half-consumed sardine sandwich, and went on.
“You know old Efficiency, don’t you?” began Tom, with tantalizing slowness.
“I should say we did!” came in a whispered chorus.
“The prof who’s always lecturing on improving your opportunities, isn’t he?” asked a student who had not been at Elmwood very long.
“That’s the one,” resumed Tom. “You know he claims we all eat and drink too much. He holds that a person should find the minimum amount of food on which he can live, and take no more than that.”
“I’ve had more than my share to-night, all right,” comfortably murmured Jack.
“And Efficiency, as we call him,” went on Tom, “is a hater of feasting of any sort, unless it be a feast of reason. I think he lives on half a cracker and a gill of milk a day, or something like that.”
“Well, what’s the idea?” asked Bert, impatiently.
“This,” answered Tom, calmly. “We will take the remains of our herewith feast, the broken victuals, the things in which they were contained, the empty tins, the depleted bottles, and deposit them on the doorstep of the domicile of Professor Hazeltine, otherwise known as Old Efficiency. When they are seen there it will show to the world that he does not practice what he preaches.”
There was silence for a moment following Tom’s announcement, and then came chuckles and smothered laughter.
“Say, that’s a good one all right!”
“It