“It is not!”
“I tell you it is! Look, it’s a piece of a bottle. You can see where it curved for the bottom,” and he pointed it out to Fenn.
“I guess you’re right,” admitted the collector, as he tossed the red object away. “Never mind, I’ll get some good specimens yet. Hello, there’s Ned’s whistle,” and he looked out of the window, which, as it was late in June, was wide open. “Come on up, Ned!” he called, “Bart’s here!”
“Coming!” cried Ned. “Lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis! Lord Mount Saint Dennis Morency Caldwalder de Nois approaches!”
“Yes, I guess it is ‘De Noise’ all right,” murmured Bart. “Since he’s been studying French history he’s been getting off such nonsense as that every chance he has.”
“Greeting, fair and noble sirs!” cried Ned Wilding, reaching the door of Fenn’s room, for, like the other chums, he had the run of the house, “greeting, most noble lords of the high justice, the middle and the low. I give thee greeting!”
“And I give thee that!” interrupted Bart, putting out his foot, and, with a sly motion, upsetting Ned as he was making a low, exaggerated bow.
“First down! Ten yards to gain!” he cried good-naturedly, as he arose, for Ned was a lively, quick-witted youth, full of fun, and never serious for more than a minute at a time.
“I hope that jarred some of the foolishness out of you,” observed Bart.
Suddenly a head was poked in the open window, and a voice exclaimed: