called it.

“Broiled steak with French fried potatoes, Adolph!”

“Yah!”

“I want an omelet with green peppers!”

“Liver and bacon for mine!”

“Ham and eggs! Plenty of gravy!”

“Yah!”

“Coffee with my order, Adolph!”

“Yah!”

“And say, I want some of those rolls with moon-seeds on top, Adolph! Don’t forget!”

“Nein!”

“And my coffee comes with my steak, not afterward. Hoch der Kaiser!”

“Shure!”

“How’s the soup, Adolph?”

“Fine und hot!”

“That’s good! One on you, Tom!”

“Bring me a plate!”

“Oh, say, Adolph, make my order a chop instead of those ham and eggs.”

“Yah!”

“And, Adolph.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want a glass of milk, with a squirt of vichy in it. Don’t forget.”

“Nein, I vunt!”

“And speed up, Adolph, we’re all in a hurry.”

“Shure. You vos allvays in a hurry!”

The German waiter scurried away. How he ever remembered it all is one of the mysteries that one day may be solved. But he never forgot, and never made a mistake.

The boys were seated at a table in one of the small rooms of Kelly’s. They stretched out their legs and took their ease, for they felt they had earned a little relaxation.

About them in other rooms, in small recesses made by the high-backed seats, were other students. There was a calling back and forth.

“Hello, Spike!”

“Stick out your head, Bender!”

“Over here, Buster—here’s room!”

“There’s Bunk now!”

You could not tell who was saying what or which, nor to whom, any more than I can. Hence the rather disjointed style of the preceding. But you know what I mean, for you must have been there yourself. If not, I beg of you to get into some such place where “good fellows,” in the truest sense of the word, meet together. For where they congregate it is always “good weather,” no matter if it snows or hails, or even if the stormy winds do blow—do blow—do blow!

But at last a measure of quietness settled down in Kelly’s, and the chatter of voices was succeeded by the clatter of knives and forks.

Then came a reaction—a time when one settled back on one’s bench, the first tearing edge of the appetite dulled. It was at this time that Tom Hatfield, leaning over to Andy, said:

“And so you are going to Yale?”

“Yes, I’ve made up my mind.”

“Well, I congratulate you. It’s a grand old place. Wish I was with you.”

“Say, Andy!” piped up Chet Anderson, “if you go to Yale you’ll meet an old friend of yours there.”

“Who, for the love of bacon?”

“Mortimer Gaffington!”

Andy’s knife fell to his plate with a clash that caused the other diners to look up hurriedly.

“Mortimer Gaffington!” gasped our hero. “For cats’ sake! That’s so. I forgot he went to Yale! Oh, wow! Well, it can’t be helped. I’ve made my choice!”