BRONSON TURNS THE TABLES
To the waiting boy the reappearance of his friend seemed instantaneous.
"Quick! To the campus; They mustn't see us near the building!" breathed
Fred.
To gain the football field was but the work of a few seconds, and when
Soda and his fellow conspirators rushed from the building, the two
boys were watching the punting and tackling of team aspirants to the
apparent oblivion of all else.
Not long did it take Buttons to descry Fred's yellow head, however, and
with a whoop, he dashed at him, followed by his companions, one of whom
bore the odoriferous box.
"What shall we do now?" asked Bronson nervously, as the shout reached
his ears.
"Nothing. It's their move. Pretend to be interested in the
practice--only keep your weather-eye open."
But though the newcomer tried to appear indifferent, when the
cessation of the footbeats and the sound of heavy breathing announced
the arrival of Soda and the others, he could not keep from looking
around to see what they were doing.
"Ha! ha! His guilty conscience makes him fearful!" cried Buttons
gleefully. "Clothespin, I'm surprised at you--not to say deeply
grieved."
Determined to make amends for having allowed his curiosity to get the
better of him, Bronson, ignoring the remark, looked at Fred.
"Who did you say that fellow with the ball is?" he asked.
"That's Tom Perkins, the best full back ever at Baxter," replied Fred,
with a wink of approval, never turning his head.
"But how can you tell when only Firsts are allowed to try for the team?"
"Oh, you can get a line on the men from their work on their Form teams.
Tom has played full back ever since he came to Baxter."
Surprised at their reception, Buttons and his companions stood quietly
until Fred began a history of football at Baxter, relating the most
exciting incidents of the annual games with Landon, and then launched
into the chances of the various candidates for making the 1912 team.
"Look here, Clothespin, it is customary at Baxter to answer when you
are spoken to," exclaimed Soda, as soon as Fred paused for breath.
"Beg pardon, did you address me?" asked Bronson, with a well-feigned
look of astonishment. "I was so interested in what Fred Markham was
telling me that I did not hear you. What did you say?"
"Good boy, Clothespin," exclaimed Fred between laughs, as he danced
with glee at Bronson's simulated surprise. "It isn't very polite, Soda,
to interrupt when I am telling a new member of our Form about the team,
especially when you smell so."
"Oh, shut up, Cotton-Top," snapped Soda. "Nobody's talking to you. Our
business is with Clothespin."
"Business?" repeated the latter innocently.
"Yes, business," broke in Buttons. "We received your credentials. They
are certainly strong. After due deliberation, however, we have decided
that as you did not deliver them in accordance with instructions, you
will not be accorded the privileges of the Second Form unless you eat
them."
As he uttered the last words, Buttons took the odoriferous limburger
from the box and started to jam it into Bronson's mouth.
But before he could do so, Fred caught his arm.
"Keep out of this, you Cotton-Top!" cried the other boys, jumping for
Fred. "This is none of your affair."
"Oh, yes, it is," grinned Fred, throwing aside Soda and skillfully
dodging the others who charged at him. Then sniffing loudly, he
continued: "I say, Buttons, you'd better run and take a bath."
"Bath nothing," retorted Buttons angrily. "It's this cheese."
Even his fellow-conspirators could not keep from laughing at the
indignation with which he repelled the charge.
"I'll stand treat for sodas if you'll come down to the store,"
exclaimed Bronson, deeming the moment opportune to try to make friends
with his tormentors. "That is, if we can go without missing classes."
"Sure we can go. There are no classes till afternoon," chorused several.
Laughing and talking, the boys started for the village, when Buttons
suddenly cried:
"I say, let's put the cheese in Bart's desk. He's gone home, and it
will make him furious."
The suggestion met with hearty approval, and after due consideration,
Shorty Simms was selected as the one to hide the limburger.
"We'll all go in," declared Soda, "then if any instructor sees us, he
won't be able to tell who did it, as he would if Shorty went alone."
Readily agreeing, the boys swarmed in a troop into the building, and
while Shorty, watching his chance, dodged to Bart's desk, opened the
top and placed the limburger as far back as possible, smearing some of
it in the cracks.
Gleefully the others watched, filing innocently from the room when the
deed was accomplished.
"Wow! but Bart'll raise an awful rumpus," opined several.
"Never mind about Bart. Come on to the store," exclaimed Soda. And,
linking his arm through Bronson's, as though fearful he might escape,
Soda hurried through the hall, the others following close behind.
But as they started down the steps, they were confronted by a group of
Firsts.
"Hey, you Seconds! Back to Number one and clean our desks for us."
At a glance Fred realized that he and his companions were outnumbered
by the Upper Formers, and, with that quickness of decision which was
destined to make him so good a football player, he whispered:
"The side door!"
Laughing derisively, thee Seconds turned and rushed into No. 1, hastily
swarming out the window and through the door.
So unexpected was the refusal to clean their desks, that for a moment
the Firsts stood motionless at the foot of the steps, then charged up.
But that moment of hesitation had been sufficient for Fred and his
followers to make good their escape, and as the Firsts rushed into No.
1, the last boy reached the campus and with a mocking wave of his hand,
Buttons shouted:
"Try the Thirds! They're slow but tame!"