There seemed to the Professor something strangely familiar about the figure that was holding him down so firmly, but he did not try to analyze the impression. He had other things to think of at that moment.
"I'll wait a second until he lets up ever so little, then, with my superior weight, I ought to be able to throw him—"
"I've got you this time. What do you mean by prowling about our camp at this time of the—"
"Wha—what—who—who—" exclaimed the Professor.
"What!" fairly shouted the other. "Who—who are you?"
"I'm Professor Zepplin. Who are you?"
"Oh, shucks! I'm Tad Butler," answered the boy, hastily releasing his prisoner, and, more crestfallen than he would have cared to admit, assisting the Professor to his feet.
"What do you mean, you young rascal?" demanded the Professor, grasping the boy by the shoulders and shaking him vigorously. "I say, what do you mean by playing such pranks on me as this? Why, I might have shot you. I—"
"You are wrong, Professor; I have not intentionally played pranks on you—"
"Yes you have—yes you have," fumed the Professor.