“Well, in view of the facts, and under the circumstances, I guess it won’t do the rule much harm,” spoke the doctor dryly.
Professor Skeel threw up his hands helplessly, and walked off, muttering to himself. And Tom and his chums were not disturbed that night.
“But I’ll take that Fairfield lad down a peg,” the irate Latin instructor muttered as he went into his house. He sat up late that night, evolving a plan to discover who had sent him the threatening letter, and at last he exclaimed:
“I believe I have it. That will give me a clew. And then—!”
He smiled sourly as he took out the screed Tom had printed, and looked closely at it.
“I will find out who composed that!” he went on, “and when I do he shall suffer for it!”
The Freshman class little realized what it was in for at the hands of Professor Skeel.
It was a day or so after the great skating race, when the Freshmen filed into Latin recitation, that they became aware of something unusual in the air. Professor Skeel looked at them individually and collectively with a mocking smile on his face.
“He’s got it in for some of us,” murmured Tom to Jack.