They were pretty silent, for a gloomy half-hour, while unpacking; wandering around the room, hanging up a photograph of the _Hustle_ here, and tossing a new soft-cushion there, and fighting over nails for toothbrushes and bars for towels. Poodle came near sniffling, as he spread a new couch-cover out carefully, patting out the wrinkles, and remembering that when his pretty sister had given it to him, a couple of days before, she had said, “I hope you and all your friends will be willing to rest on this, Torry, when you get tired of being heroes.” “O rats, what’s the use,” said Hike suddenly. “But maybe they’ll quit kidding us, in a couple of days. What’s that!” “That” was a curious sound beneath their windows, down in the Yard. Shouts of “Tie your struts to the dingbat,” and “Curl your legs around the levers and get a purchase on them” mingled with the crack of a motor. Rushing to the window, they saw a group of classmates about the strangest aeroplane that ever was built. Before a stationary motorcycle was Left Eared Dongan, Sophomore, the wild-haired candidate for football-end, seated in a Morris chair carted out from some one’s room. He wore a child’s toy helmet and a huge wooden sword, and was busily twiddling levers the size of a large man’s body. Beside him was a classmate stuffed with pillows, and bearing on his back a placard lettered “Poodle.” Behind them, for the wings of this remarkable aeroplane, a blanket was stretched between two wooden chairs. Out from an entryway rushed three boys wearing masks and brandishing clubs. Left Eared Dongan shut off the motorcycle’s motor, stood up, waved his wooden sword wildly and yelled in a pleasant, refined voice which could have been heard across the Carquinez Straits, “On! brave Poodle, have at them. The King of Salamanca awaits our coming.” The mock Poodle got up with great dignity, and snapped a toy pistol at the brigands, three times. They fell flat, with considerable kicking of the legs, and bawled for mercy. The few windows that had not been occupied by the heads of grinning Santa Benicians were well filled now. From all ’round the quadrangle came shouts of “Flee, brave Hike,” “Try your auxiliary motor,” “On to China,” “Touch-down with your southeast plane.” Then came from the entry a fat boy with a false mustache, bearing the sign “President Taft.” He fell on his knees before Left Eared Dongan and sang out, “Take me with you, O Hike. I nominate thee a second-hand major general.” The group danced cheerfully about the aeroplane, while Left Eared Dongan settled back in his Morris chair and started the motor again. Hike and Poodle smiled feebly, up there. But they did not smile, they most certainly did not, when they were left out of the Fig Tree Celebration, that evening.