“Oh, lucky seventh!” murmured the fun-loving Rover. “It’s always that way! At baseball if I do anything at all it is usually in the seventh innings.”
“Don’t grow superstitious, Tom.”
“Where do you come in?”
“I stand fifth.”
“That’s splendid, Sam! Oh, come on and jig!” And Tom caught his brother by the waist and whirled him around. Over the gymnasium floor they went, to land suddenly into the form of William Philander Tubbs, who had just entered.
“Oh, I say, don’t you know——” spluttered William Philander. He had the breath all but knocked out of his body.
“Excuse me, Tublets,” cried Tom.
“Don’t call me Tublets, please,” expostulated the tall student. “And please don’t run into me again.”
“Oh, Sam and I were only doing a war dance,” cried Tom, gaily. “We have passed our exams.”
“You are very rude, don’t you know.”