Saturday followed, and, of all Saturdays in the year, it chanced to be the vigil of a feast, and therefore a day of abstinence.  The ladies held the key of the larder, and held it, permit me to add, with a clenched hand.  It may be that all boys are not like our boys; that there are those who, having ceased to elongate and increase in the extremities out of all proportion, are willing to fast from day to day; who no longer lust after the flesh-pots, and whose appetites are governable—­but ours were not.  The accustomed fish of a Friday was welcome, but Saturday was out of the question.  “Something too much of this,” said Croesus the Sybarite.  “Amen!” cried the affable Alf.  There was an unwonted fire in the eye of Bartholomew when he asked for a dispensation at the hands of the hostess, and was refused.

All day the maidens sought to lighten our burden of gloom; the sports in the bath were more brilliant than usual.  We adjourned to the hay-loft and told stories till our very tongues were tired.  It is true that egg-nogg at intervals consoled us; but when we had awakened from a refreshing sleep among the hay, and fought a battle that ended in victory for the Amazons and our ignominious flight, we bore the scars of burr and hay-seed for hours afterwards.  Cold turkey and cranberry sauce at midnight had been promised to us, yet how very distant that seemed.  Hunger cried loudly for beef and bouillon, and a strategic movement was planned upon the spot.

The gaming, which followed a slim supper, was not so interesting as usual.  At intervals we consulted the clock; how the hours lagged!  Croesus poured his gold upon the table in utter distraction.  The maidens, who sat in sack-cloth and ashes, sorrowing for our sins, left the room at intervals to assure themselves that the larder was intact.  We, also, quietly withdrew from time to time.  Once, all three of the girls fled in consternation—­the footsteps of Bartholomew had been heard in the vicinity of the cupboard; but it was a false alarm, and the game was at once resumed.  Now, indeed, the hours seemed to fly.  To our surprise, upon referring to the clock, the hands stood at ten minutes to twelve.  So swiftly speed the moments when the light hearts of youth beat joyously in the knowledge that it is almost time to eat!

Twelve o’clock!  Cold turkey, cranberry sauce, champagne, etc., and no more fasting till the sixth day.  Having devastated the board, we must needs betray our folly by comparing the several timepieces.  Alf stood at five minutes to eleven; Bartholomew some minutes behind him; Croesus, with his infallible repeater, was but 10:45; as for me, I had discreetly run down.  The secret was out.  The clock had been tampered with, and the trusting maids betrayed.  At first they laughed with us; then they sneered, and then they grew wroth, and went apart in deep dismay.  The dining-hall resounded with our hollow mirth; like the scriptural fool, we were laughing at our own folly.  The ladies solemnly re-entered; our hostess, the spokeswoman, said, with the voice of an oracle, “You will regret this before morning.”  Still feigning to be merry, we went speedily to bed, but there was no night-cap sent to soothe us; and the lights went out noiselessly and simultaneously.