“That’s right,” nodded Leon. “I just saw him by accident a little while ago, and he’s in high spirits because we got beaten. He says he’ll never play again on any kind of a team with Renwood or Sterndale.”
“I’ve heard fuf-fellows make that kuk-kind of tut-talk before,” said Chatterton, sprawling out on the top of the reading table.
“But he means it,” cried Bent. “When Scott gets his back up, he sticks to a thing.”
“It’s too bad,” declared Renwood, tenderly touching his damaged lips. “I don’t know of a man who can fill his place.”
“He’s changed his tune about Scott lately,” whispered Leon, giving Jotham Sprout a nudge in the ribs with his elbow, upon which the fat boy fell off the end of the bench and landed on the floor with a crash that shook the building.
“Don’t you do that again!” gasped Bubble, sitting up and choking, having swallowed his gum in the midst of the catastrophe. “I’d like to know who you think you’re pushin’! I won’t set side of you no more!” Then he proceeded to make himself comfortable on the floor.
“If you don’t want to ‘set’ beside me, you may ‘lay’ on the floor,” grinned Bentley, looking around to see if anybody present took notice of the pun.
“Egg-egg-eggs-actly,” cackled Chatterton. Then he quickly put up his hands, crying: “Don’t sus-sus-shoot!”
“Somebody oughter hit you with a good, hard piece of iron,” slowly declared Thad Boland. “You committed a crime.”
Sterndale stood up.