IN “PITCHFORK’S” PLACE
“Well I say now! I wonder what’s up? Could I have----” Thus began
Shambler to commune with himself as he watched Tom. “Something’s wrong.
He doesn’t like Langridge and Gerhart, that’s evident. I must find out
about this.”
Which he very soon did, after a short talk with his new chums, and my
readers may be sure that Tom and his friends did not get any of the best
of the showing, in the account Langridge and his crony gave of their
affair, and the reasons for their withdrawal to Boxer Hall, told of in a
previous volume of this series.
“Humph! If that’s the kind of lads they are I don’t want anything to do
with them,” said Shambler, as he gazed after the retreating inseparables,
following the tale of Langridge and Gerhart.
“They’re not our style at all,” declared Langridge with a sneer. “Still,
don’t let us keep you from them, if you’d rather train in their camp.”
“Oh, I’m out for a good time!” declared Shambler boastfully. “I only
tried to get in with them as I heard they were in the athletic crowd,
and----”
“Hot athletes they are!” sneered Gerhart. “Say, if this talked-of an
all-around athletic contest comes off this Spring, and our college goes
in for it, we’ll wipe up the field with Randall, and Fairview too. They
won’t know they started. I don’t see why you didn’t come to Boxer Hall,
Shambler.”
“I wish I had, but it’s too late now. But say, I’m going in for
athletics, even if you fellows think you can do us up. I don’t have to
train with the Parsons crowd to do it though.”
“No,” admitted Langridge. “And so you offered to introduce Tom Parsons
to us. Ha! Ha! No wonder he shied off!” and he laughed sneeringly. “But,
if we’re going to town, come on before it gets too late.” And with that
the trio swung off toward the trolley line that would take them to
Haddonfield.
Meanwhile Tom and his chums tramped over the snow-covered campus, idly
kicking the white flakes aside.
“Doesn’t look much like baseball; does it?” remarked Tom, as he made a
snowball, and tossed it high in the air.
“No, but it can’t last forever,” declared Sid. “I say, did any of you
hear anything more about having a track team, and going in for field
athletics this Spring?”
“Only general talk,” replied Phil.
“There goes Dutch Housenlager,” spoke Frank. “Let’s see if he knows
anything.”
“He’s got his back turned,” whispered Tom. “It’s a good chance to play a
joke on him. Get in front of him, Sid, and be talking to him. I’ll sneak
up, and kneel down in back. Then give him a gentle push and he’ll upset
and turn a somersault over me.”
“Good!” ejaculated Phil. “It will be one that we’ve owed Dutch for a
long time.”
The trick was soon in process of being played. While Sid held the big
lad in earnest conversation, about the possibility of a track team for
Randall, Tom silently knelt down behind him. Then Sid, seeing that all
was in readiness, spoke:
“Have you seen the new style of putting the shot, Dutch?”
“Not that I know of,” replied the unsuspecting one. “How is it done?”
“This way,” answered Sid as, with a quick pressure against the chest
of Dutch, he sent him sprawling over Tom’s bent back, legs and arms
outstretched.
“Here! I say! Wow! What----”
But the rest that Dutch gave expression to was unintelligible, for he
and Tom were rolling over and over in the snow, tightly clenched.
“Event number one. Putting the shot!” cried Sid, after the manner of an
announcer giving a score at track games, “Dutch Housenlager thirty-seven
feet, six and one-quarter inches!”
“Oh, dry up!” commanded Dutch, as he skillfully tripped Tom, who had
arisen to his feet. “That’s one on me all right. Now, if you fellows are
done laughing, I’ve got a bit of news for you.”
“About athletics?” asked Frank eagerly.
“No, but we’re going to have a new teacher in Pitchfork’s place
to-morrow.”
“No!” cried Tom, half disbelieving, as he got up and brushed the snow
from his garments.
“But yes!” insisted Dutch. “Our beloved and respected Professor Emerson
Tines--alias Pitchfork--has been called to deliver a lecture on the
habits of the early Romans contrasted with those of the cave dwellers.
It’s to take place before some high-brow society to-night, and he can’t
get back here to-morrow in time to take his classes. He’s going to
provide a substitute.”
“Oh joy!” cried Phil.
“Wait,” cautioned Frank. “The remedy may be worse than the disease.”
“Who’s the sub?” asked Tom.
“Professor H. A. Broadkins, according to the bulletin board,” replied
Dutch.
“What’s ‘H. A.’ stand for?” Sid wanted to know.
“Ha! Ha! of course,” replied Tom promptly.
“Joke!” spoke Frank solemnly.
“Harold Archibald,” declared Sid. “Oh, say, we won’t do a thing to him.
I’ll wager he’s one of these pink and white little men, who wears a
number twelve collar, and parts his hair in the middle, so he can walk a
crack. Say, will to-morrow ever come?”
“Don’t take too much for granted,” advised Dutch. “I picked out a Harold
Archibald once as an easy mark, and I got left. This may not be the same
one, but--well, come on down the street. I’ve got a quarter that’s
burning a hole in my pocket, and we might as well help Dobbins raise the
mortgage on his drug store, by getting some hot chocolate there.”
“_Pro bono publico!_” ejaculated Tom. “Your deeds will live after you,
Dutch.”
“And if you upset me again, you’ll go to an early grave,” declared the
big lad, as the five strolled off to recuperate after the arduous labors
of the day.
When Tom and his chums filed into Latin recitation the next morning,
there was a feeling of expectancy on all sides, for the word had gone
around that there might be “something doing” in regard to the professor
who had come to temporarily fill the place of “Pitchfork.”
No one had seen him, as yet, but his probable name of “Harold Archibald,”
had been bandied about until it was felt sure that it was an index to his
character and build. Judge then, of the surprise of the lads, when they
found awaiting them a tall man of dark complexion, with a wealth of dark
hair, and a face like that of some football player. He was muscular to a
degree. There was a gasp of distinct surprise, and several lads who had
come “not prepared” began to dip surreptitiously into their Latin books,
while others, who had contemplated various and sundry tricks, at once
gave them over.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” began Professor H. A. Broadkins, in a deep,
but not unpleasant voice. (It developed later that his name was Hannibal
Achilles.) “I am sorry your regular teacher is not here, but I will do
the best I can. You will recite in the usual way.”
Thereupon, much to the surprise of the boys, he began giving them a
little history of the particular lesson for the day, roughly sketching
the events which led up to the happenings, and giving reasons for them.
It was much more interesting than when “Pitchfork” had the class and the
boys did their best.
But Dutch Housenlager had to have his joke.
The lesson had to do with some of the Roman conquests, and, in order to
illustrate how a certain battle was fought the professor, by means of
books constructed a sort of model walled city. The besiegers were
represented by more books, outside the walls.
“This was one of the first battles in which the catapult was used,” went
on the instructor. “You can imagine the surprise of the besieged army
when the Romans wheeled this great engine of war close to the walls, and
began hurling great stones. In a measure the catapult served to cover
the attack on another part of the city.
“For instance we will make a sort of catapult by means of this ruler.
This piece of mineral will do for the stone, and er--I think I will ask
one of you young men to assist me--er--you,” and he pointed to Dutch.
“Just come here, and you may work the catapult when I give the word. I
want to show the class how the other division of the army sapped the
walls.”
There came into the eyes of Dutch a gleam of mischief, as he looked at
the improvised catapult. It consisted of a ruler balanced on a book,
with a piece of mineral, from a cabinet of geological specimens, for the
stone. By tapping the unweighted end of the ruler smartly the rock
could be made to fly over into the midst of the besieged city. But
Dutch also noticed something else.
There was, on the table where the professor had laid out his map of
battle, an inkwell. When he thought the teacher was not looking Dutch
substituted the ink for the stone. A tap on the ruler would now send the
inkwell flying. Mr. Broadkins did not seem to notice this as he went on
with his preparations to sap the city walls.
“Now we are all ready,” he announced. “You may operate the catapult,” he
added, apparently not looking at it, and Dutch, with a grin at his
chums, prepared to hit the ruler a good blow. He calculated that the ink
would be well distributed.
Suddenly the professor changed his plans. Without seemingly looking at
Dutch, or the catapult, he said:
“On second thoughts you may come here--er--Mr. Housenlager. I will work
the catapult, and you may represent the invading division. All ready
now. Stand here.”
Dutch dared not disobey, nor dare he change the inkwell for the innocent
stone. Yet he knew, and all the class could see, that he was standing
where he would get a dusky bath in another minute. And the professor
appeared all unconscious of the inkwell.
“Ready!” called Mr. Broadkins, and he struck the unweighted end of the
ruler a smart blow.
Up into the air rose the bottle of ink. It described a graceful curve,
and then descended. Dutch tried to dodge, but, somehow, he was not quick
enough, and the inkwell hit him on the shoulder. Up splashed the black
fluid, and a moment later Dutch looked like a negro minstrel, while a
new pink tie, of which he was exceedingly proud, took on a new and
wonderful pattern in burnt cork splatter design.
“Wow! Wuff!” spluttered the fun-loving student, as some ink went in his
mouth. And then the class roared.