Shadow, desperately. "And after the men got 'em, what do you think they did? Oh, this is a good one;" and Shadow's eyes began to sparkle.
"Found fault, I suppose, because the beans weren't from Boston," said Dave.
"No."
"Don't keep us waiting, Shadow. Tell the story to a finish," said Phil.
"Well, they got the pork and beans----"
"Yes."
"And they sat down, facing each other----"
"All right--fire away," said Sam, as the story-teller paused.
"And they began to eat----"
"Glad to know they didn't begin to weep," was Roger's soft comment.
"And they ate the pork and beans all up," continued Shadow, soberly. And then he stopped short and looked around blankly.
"Eh?"
"Well, I never!"
"Is that all there is to the story?" demanded Sam.
"Certainly. You didn't expect they'd buy the beans and throw them away, did you?" asked Shadow, innocently.
"Sold that time!" cried Dave, good-naturedly. "Never mind; we'll let Shadow pay for the lunch we're going to have. Come on."
"Not on your tintype," murmured the story-teller. "Not unless you pass around the hat and make me treasurer."
They found a convenient restaurant and, pushing together two of the tables, sat down in a merry group. The proprietor knew some of them, and nodded pleasantly as he took their orders. Soon they were eating as only happy and healthy schoolboys can eat.
"My, but this mince-pie is good!" declared Roger. "I could eat about a yard of it!"
"A yard of pie is good," said Dave, with a smile.
"Talking about a yard of pie puts me in mind of a story," came from Shadow, who was stowing away the last of a hot roast-beef sandwich.
"Hold on, we've had enough!" cried Sam.
"If you pile on another like that last one, we'll roll you out in the snow," was Phil's comment.
"This is a real story, really it is, and it's a good one, too."
"Vintage of 1864, or before Columbus landed?" inquired Ben.
"I've never told this before. Some Yale students went into a butcher shop and one of 'em, to be funny, asked the butcher if he'd sell him a yard of mutton. 'Certainly,' says the butcher. 'Fifty cents a yard.' 'All right,' says Mr. Student. 'I'll take two yards.' 'A dollar, please,' says the butcher. 'Here you are,' says the student, and holds up the money. Then the butcher takes the bill, puts it in his cash drawer, and hands out--six sheep feet."
"Very old and musty," was Dave's comment. "Washington told that to Csar when the two were planning to throw Socrates into Niagara." And then a laugh went up all around.
The boys were just finishing their lunch when the door opened and a stout man walked in. He was covered with snow, and looked anything but happy.
"Our friend of the smashed eggs," whispered Sam to Dave. "Wonder if he has cleaned out his valise yet."
The man sat down at a side table and ordered several things. Then he happened to glance around, noticed the students for the first time, and scowled.
"Humph! what you fellows doing here?" he growled.
"Haven't we a right to come here?" demanded Dave, for the man was looking straight at him.
"Shouldn't think the proprietor would want such gay larks as you here."
"I shouldn't think he'd want such a grunt as you here," retorted Sam Day.
"Hi! now, don't you talk to me that way!" roared the stout man. "I want you to understand I am a gentleman, I am."
"See here, we can't have any quarreling in here," said the restaurant proprietor, coming forward.
"Some of them fellows knocked me down on the train and smashed a valise full of eggs on me, Mr. Denman."
"We did nothing of the sort," answered Sam. "He fell on the icy platform of the car and right on top of his valise."
"And then he got up and bumped into me," added Dave. "He was very impolite, to say the least."
"Look here!" roared the stout man, "I want you to understand----"
"Wait a minute," interrupted Amos Denman, the restaurant keeper. "Isn't your name Isaac Pludding?"
"Yes."
"Then you are the man who caused the trouble at Mr. Brown's restaurant last week. I know you. Some time ago you were in here, and nothing suited you. I don't want to serve you, and you can go elsewhere for your meal."
"Don't want to sell me anything?" snarled Isaac Pludding.
"Not a mouthful. And, let me add, I consider these young men gentlemen, and I won't have them annoyed while they are in my place."
"Oh, all right, have your own way," snarled the stout man. "I'll take my money elsewhere, I will!" He glared at the students. "But I'll get square some day for this--don't forget that!" And shaking his head very savagely, he stormed out of the restaurant, banging the door after him.
CHAPTER III
OFF THE TRACK
"Well, if he isn't the worst yet," was the comment of the senator's son.
"I hope he isn't waiting for that train," said Shadow. "I don't want to see any more of him."
"Pooh! who's afraid?" asked Phil. "I guess we can make him keep his distance."
"I thought I knew him when he came in, but I wasn't sure," said the restaurant keeper. "The man who runs the hotel, Mr. Brown, had a lot of trouble with him because he wouldn't pay his bill--said it was too high. Then he came here once and said the meat wasn't fresh and the bread was stale and sour. I came close to pitching him out. Don't let him walk over you--if he does take your train."
"No danger," answered Dave. He had not yet forgotten the rude manner in which Isaac Pludding had shoved him.
It was soon time for the Oakdale train to arrive, and the students walked back to the depot. The snow was over a foot deep and still coming down steadily. The depot was crowded with folks, and among them they discovered Isaac Pludding, with his valise and a big bundle done up in brown paper.
"He certainly must be waiting for the train," said Dave; and he was right. When the cars came to a stop the stout man was the first person aboard. The students entered another car and secured seats in a bunch as before.
"By the way, where is Nat Poole?" asked Roger, suddenly. "I didn't see him get off the other train."
"He got off and walked towards the hotel," answered Phil. "I suppose he feels rather lonesome."
"That can't be helped," said Sam. "He makes himself so disagreeable that nobody wants him around."
Just as the train was about to start a boy leaped on the platform of the car our friends occupied, opened the door, and came in. It was Nat Poole, and he was all out of breath. He looked for a seat, but could find none.
"They ought to run more cars on this train," he muttered, to Roger. "It's a beastly shame to make a fellow stand up."
"Better write to the president of the railroad company about it, Nat," answered the senator's son, dryly.
"Maybe