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“I say! Hold on there!” he exclaimed. “What will you take to leave off torturing that flute and go to bed?”

“Well, Featherweight, seeing it’s you, I won’t charge anything,” replied Eugene. “I have been thinking that we had all better go to bed if we intend to get up at daylight. I’ll stop. I’ll go down and wind up Walter’s alarm-clock, and then I’ll come back and court the embrace of ‘tired Nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep.’”

“H’m! Shakespeare!” exclaimed Perk.

“Young,” corrected Walter, laying down his book.

“Pat him on the back, somebody,” suggested Bab.

“Don’t do it. Put him out of doors,” said Featherweight. “He has violated the rules of the Club by quoting poetry.”

Amid a volley of such exclamations as these Eugene left the room and went out to wind up his brother’s alarm-clock. Now, the only alarm-clock that Walter possessed was his white horse (Tom, he called him), and the way to “wind him up” was to turn him loose in the yard. He would stay around the house all night, and at the first peep of day take his stand under his master’s window and arouse him by his neighing. How he got into the habit, or how he found out which was his window, Walter did not know. There were half a dozen windows on that side of the house, but the horse never made a mistake. And there was no use in trying to sleep when Tom wanted him to get up; for he would keep on repeating his calls until some one answered them. In some respects he was better than an alarm-clock.