“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