He heard Ned's pony pursuing him.
"Hi-yi-yi-y-e-o-w!" howled the shrill voice of the fat boy.
Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle were sitting at opposite ends of the table, with elbows leaning on it, engaged in earnest conversation. There had been so much yelling out on the plain ever since the boys left camp that the older men gave no heed to this new shout—did not even turn their eyes in the direction whence Stacy Brown and his pony were sweeping down on them at break-neck speed.
Suddenly the two men started back with a sudden exclamation, as a shadow fell athwart the table and a dark form hurled itself through the air, while a shrill, "w-h-o-o-p-e-e!" sounded right over their heads.
The fat boy cleared the table without so much as disturbing the fly to which he had referred when making the arrangement.
Kris Kringle's face wore an expansive grin as he discovered the cause of the interruption. But, Professor Zepplin's face reflected no such emotion. He was angry. He started to rise, when a second shadow fell across the table.
Ned Rector, not to be outdone by his fat little friend, pursed his lips tightly, driving his broncho at the dinner table and pressing in the spurs so hard, that the pony grunted with anger.
Up went the broncho in a graceful curving leap.
But the pony or its rider had not calculated the distance properly. Both rear hoofs went through the table, whisking it off the ground from before the astonished eyes of Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle.
Both men drew back so violently that they toppled over backwards.