“Nail him!”
“Soak him!”
“Give it to him!”
“Hooray!”
The audience was in an uproar, and it seemed as if every person there had brought something to throw.
“Hel-lup!” bellowed the unfortunate lad. “I vos peing kilt alretty yet!”
With the band, Ephraim Gallup roared with laughter. He knew a practical joke had been perpetrated, and somehow it had the flavor of Frank Merriwell’s old-time larks, so he was immensely amused.
As Hans stopped revolving for a moment, he shook his fist at Ephraim, gurgling:
“Vait, vait! Uf I aind’t kilt pefore I die, I vill got efen mit you! You vos a——”
Swat!—a rotten apple struck him fairly in the mouth, stopping his flow of speech.