it wasn't fried----"

"I know what he means," said Phil. "It was robins' wings salted in
sauerkraut."

"It wasn't. This was an order of----"

"Blue pumpkin rinds with mackerel sauce," interrupted Sam Day. "Very
fine dish. I ate it once, when I was dining at the White House with the
President."

"It wasn't pumpkin rinds, or anything like it. It was a plain order
of----"

"Cherry roast, with minced sunflowers?" suggested Roger. "The girls at
Vassar dine on 'em regularly, after playing football."

"This was a plain everyday order of pork and beans," shouted 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 Columbu