Supper that evening proved a very pleasant affair, although John still felt too strange and ill at ease to take much part in the conversation that might be said to have raged from the instant grace was over to the end of the meal. The dining-room was a home-like apartment, light, roomy, and well furnished. There were many pictures on the walls—not a few of them photographs of former inhabitants of West House grouped on the lawn or on the steps—and a leather couch occupied the bay. A mammoth sideboard hid the door into the parlor, which was never used, and a small serving-table stood between the windows at the back, through which John looked at the edge of the oak grove. The dining-table was long enough to seat twelve quite comfortably, although its capacity was not often tested. Mrs. Linn presided at the head and Fred Sanderson at the foot. At the matron’s right sat Hooper Ross, with Otto Zoller beside him and Ned Brent coming next. At Sanderson’s right was Fergus White. John’s place was next and his right-hand neighbor was Claire Parker. Beyond Parker, Mason Halladay completed the company. Hulda, red of face and always good-natured, waited on table and Mrs. Linn served. The food was plain, well-cooked and attractively served; and there was plenty of it. For supper there was cold meat, a plain omelet, baked potatoes, graham and white bread, preserved peaches and one of Mrs. Linn’s big white-roofed pound cakes. And each end of the table held a big blue-and-white pitcher of milk which had usually to be refilled before the meal was over.

It was quite like a family party, and everyone talked when he pleased, to whom he pleased and as much as he pleased, and sometimes it became quite deafening and Mrs. Linn placed her hands over her ears and looked appealingly down the length of the table at Fred Sanderson; and Sandy served rebukes right and left until order was restored. Tonight everyone save the two new members of the household had lots to say, for they had been making history during the three months of summer vacation and had to tell about it. Even Mrs. Linn was more excited and voluble than usual, being very glad to get her boys back again, and contributed her full share to the conversation. John contented himself with satisfying a very healthy appetite and trying to learn something about his companions. For a while it was exceedingly difficult, for the boys talked in a language filled with strange and unfamiliar words.

“Another slice of the cold, if you please, Marm,” said Ned Brent. “Pass along, Dutch.”

“Any more bakes in the bowl, Marm? They’re the slickest I’ve had since Com.”

“Easy there, Dutch! You’re training, you know, and bakes are very fattening.”

“Yes, and go light on the heavy sweet, Dutch. I’ll eat your wedge for you.”

And it took some time for John to get the fellows sorted out by names. The round-faced, good-natured Dutch he identified easily, and he knew that the boy who had tripped him on the steps was called Hoop, but for a while it wasn’t apparent whether Spud was the chubby smiling youth sitting beyond Parker or the tall, older boy at the foot of the table. But at last he had the names all fitted; Hoop, Dutch, Ned, Sandy, The Fungus and Spud. Everyone, it seemed, was known by a nickname save Ned Brent. He was just Ned, or, on rare occasions, Old Ned. John wondered whether they would find a nickname for him. He wasn’t long in doubt.

After supper the fellows congregated in the Ice Chest, the room occupied by Sandy and Spud Halladay, John being conducted thither by Ned. The Ice Chest had only the regular allowance of chairs and so several of the visitors perched themselves on the beds. John and Claire as new arrivals were honored with chairs, however. As school did not begin until tomorrow, there was no study tonight and until bedtime at ten o’clock West House might do as it pleased. It pleased to discuss the football situation and eat marshmallows and salted peanuts, the former supplied by Ned and the latter by Dutch Zoller.

“Say, Boland, you’ve got to come out for football, you know,” announced Sandy. “We need every fellow we can get this year. Think you can play?”

“I cal’late I can try,” answered John modestly.

“Wow!” exclaimed Spud. “‘Cal’late,’ fellows!”

“You’ve got it,” said Sandy approvingly.

“Right-o, Spud!” cried Ned.

“Only ‘cal’late’s’ too long. Make it ‘Cal’ for short,” suggested The Fungus.

“Got you, kid,” Spud agreed. “Make you acquainted, fellows, with my very dear friend Mr. Cal Boland.”

“Speech! Speech!” cried the others. John looked about him perplexedly.

“Huh?” he asked finally.

“Don’t say ‘huh,’ Cal; it isn’t done in the best circles,” advised Dutch. “Give us a speech.”

“Me?”

“Sure thing! You’ve been christened.”

“Let him alone,” laughed Ned. “How about the other, fellows?”

“Oh, that’s too easy,” said The Fungus, grinning at young Parker. “Thought you’d all met Clara!”

There was a howl of laughter and Claire got very red and distressed. But,—

“I—I don’t mind,” he said.

“That’s the stuff! Of course you don’t. Besides, it’s a very nice nickname and rather—rather unusual,” said Hoop Ross. “Satisfied with your cognomen, Mr. Boland?”

“I cal—I guess so,” answered John, amidst renewed laughter.

“I move you, Mr. Chairman,” said Hoop, rising and bowing to Sandy, “that the christening exercises take place tonight.”

“Good stuff!”

“Second the motion!”

“Moved and carried,” proclaimed Sandy. “All in favor— Thank you, gentlemen. The motion is carried. The exercises will take place tonight at the witching hour of—of eleven-thirty at the Haunted Tarn. A full attendance is requested. And if any fellow forgets to turn out he will be court-martialed. The usual regalia, gentlemen.”

“Fine!” said The Fungus. “And there’s a moon tonight. But won’t half-past eleven be a little early, Sandy? Marm never puts out her light until about eleven.”

“We’ll use the emergency exit,” said Ned gayly. “I’ll sneak down and unlock the back door after Queen Hulda goes to bed and we can get in that way when we come back. Marm will be fast asleep by that time. Wish I was in the pond now.”

“So do I,” agreed Hoop. “My, but it’s hot for this time of year, isn’t it? When we came back last year—”

“Rained like fury,” said Spud. “Remember?”

“Do we?” laughed Dutch. “Do we remember your suit-case, Spud? Oh me, oh my!”

“What was that?” asked Sandy. “Was I there?”

“No, you came up ahead. We had Red-Head’s carriage and it was full up. Spud was holding his suit-case in his lap, and just as we made the turn into Elm Street it slipped—”

“Slipped nothing!” cried Spud. “The Fungus shoved it off!”

“Why, Spud Halladay, how you talk! I wouldn’t do such a mean trick!”

“Well, anyway, it went out,” continued Dutch, “and there was a nice big pool of muddy water right there and the suit-case went kerplunk—”

“And I hadn’t shut it tight because it was sort of crowded, and the water got inside and just about ruined everything,” said Spud. “Oh, it was funny—maybe. I’ll get even with The Fungus yet for that.”

“Spud, I didn’t—”

“Shut up, Fungus, and don’t lie. I saw you,” said Hoop.

“I was about to remark,” said The Fungus with dignity, “that I didn’t see the puddle. It was—it was a coincidence, Spud.”

“Yes, it was—not! You wait, you white-haired, bleached out toadstool!”

“Spud, you can’t call me that and live,” said The Fungus. Instantly Spud and The Fungus were thrashing and kicking about on the floor beside the window-seat. Proceedings of this sort were so frequent, however, that the others merely looked on calmly until The Fungus, by virtue of superior size and agility, had Spud at his mercy. “Beg pardon?” demanded The Fungus.

“No, you old puff-ball!”

“What?” The Fungus rubbed Spud’s short nose with the heel of his hand and Spud writhed in a vain attempt to unseat his enemy.

“Let me up!”

“Be good?”

“Maybe.”

“Apologize?”

“Never! Pull him off, someone.”

“Cut out the rough-house, you two,” said Sandy. “Let’s go down and have harmony. Got any new songs, Ned?”

“I don’t know; yes, I guess so. But I’m tired.”

“Oh, come on, Ned!”

“Don’t be a tight-wad!”

“I’ll sing for you,” announced The Fungus eagerly as he removed himself from Spud’s prostrate form. But this offer met with groans of derision and protest.

“If you open your mouth, Fungus, we’ll throw you out,” said Sandy decisively. “Come on, Ned, like a good chap.”

“But I tell you I’m tired—”

“It will rest you,” said Spud. “Nothing like music to soothe and rest you.”

“I know a lullaby,” suggested The Fungus.

“So do I,” answered Hoop darkly. “Mine’s a club. I’m not going down if The Fungus is going to howl.”

“If he tries it I’ll lick him,” said Spud. “I can lick him, you know. You fellows saw how I smeared him a minute ago.”

“How’s your old stub nose?” asked The Fungus maliciously. Spud felt of it and made a face.

“Hurts, you abominable Fungus. You just wait!”

“Come on,” said Sandy. “All down to The Tomb!”

They trooped down the stairs and into the parlor. Sandy turned up the light and Hoop opened the piano.

“I’ll bet Marm hasn’t had this old music-box tuned,” said Ned as he seated himself on the stool and ran his fingers inquiringly along the keyboard. “I should say not! It’s something fierce!”

“‘Hark, from the Tomb a doleful sound!’” murmured Spud. “What you going to sing, Ned?”

“What do you want?”

“Something The Fungus doesn’t know.”

“That’s easy,” laughed Ned. “He doesn’t know anything.”

“Give us something new,” said Sandy, seating himself beside John on the couch. “He’s a dandy singer,” he confided to the latter. “Do you sing?”

“A little,” replied John modestly.

Ned broke into a rollicking song that had become popular during the summer and the others joined lustily in the chorus. In the middle of it Dutch seized a sofa cushion and aimed a blow at The Fungus.

“Cut out the parlor tricks,” cried Hoop.

“He was trying to sing! I heard him!”

“I never!”

“You did, Fungus! You were making awful noises in your throat,” charged Dutch.

“I was trying to cough. I guess I may cough if I want to!”

“You go outdoors and do it. This is a gentlemen’s party. Give us that chorus again, Ned.”

Ned obeyed and Dutch and Hoop stood guard over The Fungus and threatened him whenever he started to open his mouth. Mrs. Linn tiptoed in and seated herself in a chair which Spud moved forward for her, beaming upon them.

“I do love to hear them sing,” she confided to Claire in whispers. “I’ve always been fond of music. My husband had such a grand tenor voice. I wish you might have heard him.”

“Yes’m,” said Claire. “I wish I might have. Did he—did he lose it?”

“Who knows?” answered Mrs. Linn with something that sounded like a sniffle. “He had genuine talent, had Mr. Linn. And he played the guitar something wonderful. ‘Derby Day’ was one of his favorite pieces. It would most bring the tears to your heyes—I mean eyes,” she corrected hastily.

“It must have been very nice,” murmured Claire politely.

“Here’s a fellow says he can sing,” announced Sandy in a lull. “Go ahead, Cal, and do your worst.”

But John was embarrassed and begged off.

“Come on,” said Ned. “What do you know, Cal? I’ll play your accompaniment if I can.”

“I cal’late you wouldn’t know my songs,” said John.

“Well, let’s see. What are they?”

“Know ‘The Wreck of the Lucy May’?” asked John after some hesitation.

“No, how does it go? Come over and hum it. Maybe I can catch on to it.” But John shook his head.

“I cal—I guess all the things I know are sort of funny,” he said apologetically. “I know ‘Barney Ferry’; ever hear that?” Ned had to acknowledge that he hadn’t. And he was forced to make similar admissions regarding several other songs of John’s suggestion. Finally, however, John mentioned “Sally in Our Alley,” and Ned swung around and started the tune.

“Got you there, Cal. Come on and sing it.”

So John, who had wandered across to the piano, cleared his throat, hunched his shoulders once or twice and began. Hoop and Dutch nudged each other and The Fungus winked amusedly at Sandy. But John had a surprise for them and the grins disappeared. He had a good voice and had learned how to use it, and as soon as his nervousness had been forgotten he held his audience silent and delighted. Sandy raised his eyebrows and nodded appreciatively at Dutch. They all paid John the compliment of refraining from joining in with him and when he had finished applause was genuine and whole-hearted.

“Good work, old man!” cried Sandy, slapping him on the back. “You can do it as well as Ned can.”

“A lot better,” said Ned. “He’s got a peach of a voice. What else do you know?”

“That’s all, I guess,” answered John, smiling with pleasure and embarrassment.

“Now do sing something else,” begged Mrs. Linn, wiping her eyes. “That was just lovely. My, the times I’ve heard that song when I was a girl at home! Quite carries me back, it does!”

“Maybe if you’ll let me sit down there,” said John, “I can sort of find the tune. I’ll try if you want me to.”

“Sure thing!”

“Go ahead!”

“Sing us some of those things you spoke of, Cal.”

So John took Ned’s place and sang right through his repertoire before he was allowed to get up. His accompaniments weren’t ambitious, but he managed fairly well, and the songs he sang, most of them old ballads of the sea that he had heard all his life, didn’t demand much of the piano to make them go. Toward the last the others began to dip into the choruses with him, and there was one rollicking refrain that caught their fancy at once and for years after remained a classic at Oak Park. They made John sing that over and over, and howled in unison:

“That’s a winner!” declared Hoop. “‘Yo heave ho!’ What’s the name of it?”

“I don’t think it has any name,” answered John. “Leastways, I never heard any.”

“Its name is ‘Yo Heave Ho,’” declared The Fungus. “‘Yo heave ho! And away we—’”

“Kill him, someone!” begged Spud.

“It’s most ten, boys,” said Mrs. Linn. “Off with you.”

“Now, Marm, you know this is first night back,” begged Hoop. “We can stay down another half-hour, can’t we? School isn’t really begun yet.”

“Now don’t ask me—” began the matron.

“That’s so, Marm,” interrupted Sandy. “Rules don’t count tonight, you know. We’ll have one more song, eh? Isn’t that it, fellows?”

“Sure thing, Marm! One more song and then we’ll go up. Come on and gather around the thump-box.”

“What’ll it be?” asked Ned, drowning Mrs. Linn’s protests by banging chords.

“‘Yo Heave Ho!’” they cried. “Can you play it, Ned?”

“I guess so. Now, then, sing the verses, Cal, and we’ll do the rest!”

Mrs. Linn subsided in smiling despair and for the tenth time they yo-heave-ho’d until the chandelier swayed. At the final roar of sound Sandy turned out the lights and there was a frantic rush up the stairway.

“Good night, Marm! Good night!”

“Sleep tight, Marm!”

“Yo heave ho! When the wind do—”

“What’s for breakfast, Marm?”

“Chops and bakes, I hope!”

“Is that right, Marm? Keep mine warm, please; I may be late!”

“Yo heave ho! When the wind do blow—”

“And we won’t be home for a month or so!”

“Go-o-od night!”