“Sure, I did,” responded Tommy, once more master of his emotions. “He _has_ got a swelled head and he _is_ playing rotten.” “If you can’t act like a gentleman--” began Coles angrily. “Oh, put him out,” called Nip Storer. Chick, held in subjection by Ted’s capable hand--it’s difficult to get to your feet when some one is pushing against your chest--glared wrathfully at Tommy. Tommy returned his gaze without a qualm. After all, reflected Bert, beside him, he didn’t lack courage! “I really think you’d better beat it, Tommy,” advised Ted coldly. “You are a pesky nuisance, anyway, and I don’t know who let you in.” “Then he goes, too,” said Tommy, nodding at the irate Chick. “He hadn’t any call to say I was fat!” “So you are,” declared Chick hotly. “You’re a fat fool!” “Move both members be allowed to withdraw,” said Jim Galvin, grinning enjoyably. “Seconded,” said Anstruther. “The secretary is directed to expunge the remarks of both gentlemen--I mean rough-necks--from the records.” “Forget it, you two,” advised Ted. “Mutual apologies are in order. How about it, Tommy? If you want to stay, son, you’d better behave.” “Do we get the apples?” asked Tommy soberly. “Sure,” Ted answered amidst laughter. “I apologize,” said Tommy. “Just the same--” But Bert’s elbow colliding with his ribs interrupted his qualifying addenda. “All right,” agreed Chick, restored to better humor. “He isn’t fat. He’s merely plump.” Tommy looked doubtful for a moment, but Coles pulled a box of apples from under a bed and the doubt vanished. During the subsequent half-hour Tommy was much too busy to indulge in what he termed constructive criticism. No one counted the number of Northern Spies he demolished, but it was considerable. Conversation proceeded briskly but somewhat unintelligibly. In the middle of the feast “Dutch” Kruger arrived, bearing a fat black case, and was hailed tumultuously. He devoured two apples hastily, urged on by impatient watchers, and would have started a third. But Jim Galvin deftly took the apple away from him and substituted the black case. Dutch’s protests were drowned. Good-naturedly he produced a shining saxophone. “‘Football Blues,’ Dutch!” “Aye! Attaboy, Dutch! I want to sing!” “What time is it?” asked Dutch anxiously. “Only nine. Lots of time, boy. Give us ‘The Football Blues.’”