You can talk all you want about the good old spreads at boarding school and college, but when you put five husky young fellows, two gasoline blowtorches, three bottles of champagne and every edible from canned chicken to welsh rarebit into one little Ford ambulance you come pretty close to approaching the infinity of fun. This was the kind of celebration we had tonight in Gilmore's car; and it lasted until the early hours of the morning. There were Lundquist and Dunham, Chauvenet and Gilmore, and I, packed into the rear end of 443. It was the queerest party I have ever attended. In the first place our legs were all tied together in a knot in the center. Gilmore himself, owner of the banquet hall and master of ceremonies sat at one end and made army bread toast for the Welsh rarebit. He cooked it on a piece of brass shell casing, hammered out flat, with the blow-torch underneath it to supply the heat. Lundquist mixed the egg sauce for the lobster salad, while Dunham opened the cans of sardines, peas, and chicken. Chauvenet had to test the champagne after he had uncorked one bottle and my job was to butter the hardtack which
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