“Why, Mrs. Green, we never do anything wrong,” said Sam, reproachfully.

“Oh, no, of course not,” was the sarcastic answer.  “I’ll be thankful to find myself alive after you are all gone.”  And with this reply the matron bounced off into the kitchen, where she slammed the door after her.

“Here are your shoes, Peleg,” said George Granbury, as he handed them over.

“I want my socks first.”

“Here you are,” came from Larry Colby.  As Larry’s term as major was now over he was inclined to be as full of fun as anybody.

Peleg took his socks and his shoes and started to put on the former.

“Hullo, what’s this!” he cried, and shook one foot violently.  “What’s in that sock!  A grasshopper, I declare!  Larry Colby, did you do that?”

“Why, Peleg, you know I never play any jokes,” answered the ex-major, innocently.

“Don’t I, though!  But never mind.”  The general-utility man started to put on the other sock.  “If you think—­Great snakes, what’s this?  Oh, my foot!  A hop-toad!  Beastly!” And Peleg flung the toad at Larry.  The ex-major dodged and the animal struck William Philander Tubbs full in the face.

“Oh, ah—­what do you—­ah—­mean by such actions!” stormed the aristocratic cadet.  “I shall report this.”

“Hurrah, Tubby has gone into the frog-raising business,” shouted Tom, merrily.

“I shan’t put nuthin’ on here,” went on Peleg Snuggers, and watching his chance, he ran off at top speed, with his shoes in one hand and his socks in the other.

CHAPTER VIII

GOOD-BYE TO PUTNAM HALL

“Now, Songbird, give us one of your best poetical effusions,” came from Dick Rover, after the excitement had died down a little.  “We haven’t heard a word out of you for fourteen minutes and a quarter.”

“Yes, Songbird, turn on the poetry spigot and let her flow,” put in Tom.

“Give us something on old schooldays,” came from another cadet.

“Put in a touch of last farewells,” added another.

“Don’t forget to speak of the moon and fond memories.”

“Or, shall we ever forget?”

“Or, camping on the old camp-ground, Songbird.”

“And of all things, mention the soup we had last Thursday.  No piece of poetry would be complete without that soup.”

“Who’s making up poetry about soup?” roared Songbird Powell.  But then he grew calmer.  “All right, fellows, here goes.”  And he started: 

“Of all the days to mem’ry dear,
The dearest days are those spent here,
  When we—­”

“That’s a libel!” interrupted Tom.  “Captain Putnam’s rates are no higher than the rates of other first-class academies.  I move we cut that verse out, Songbird.”

“I didn’t mean the cost of the days spent here.”

“You can’t spend anything here,” put in George Granbury.  “You have to go to Cedarville to do your shopping.”