“Yes, and the lad who put the smoke bomb in the furnace room! A fine chap to keep things straight!” “Oh, well, you don’t have to believe me!” said Morse, with an air of injured innocence that ill became him. “They evidently don’t,” commented Tom dryly. “Say, what was the row about just before I came back with that horse?” asked Morse, as though he wanted to change the subject. “Snowball and old Skeel,” explained Tom briefly. “It was sort of a case of a perfectly irresistible force coming in contact with a perfectly immovable body--but not quite,” and he went more into the details of the accident on the ice. “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.