“Yes, it’s easy enough for you fellows to talk, for you can play ball, but—Oh well, what’s the use of kicking. I s’pose I’ll get in form again for next year,” and with rather a bitter laugh Bill prepared to follow his brothers.
As they had been on their good behavior of late, and as there was such a competition for places on the ball team, it was decided that they should get permission to make a trip to the village instead of trying to run the guard.
“I’m not hankering to have the proctor’s scouts nab me,” explained Cap, “and I guess we can get a pass all right if we put it up to Nibsy good and strong,” the aforesaid proctor who rejoiced in the appelation Alexander McNibb being thus designated.
They obtained permission easily, though the proctor looked at them rather sharply, and Pete wondered if he recognized in him and his brothers the lads who had, a few nights previous, wheeled a town sprinkling cart into the middle of the school inner court and left it there with an admonition printed on a big placard adorning it, recommending that certain members of the sporting crowd get aboard the water vehicle. But if the proctor knew anything he kept it to himself, and, a little later the three Smith boys, and Whistle-Breeches were trudging toward town.
They saw the glare of the gasoline torches on the professor’s wagon before they heard his voice, but it was not long ere they recognized his resonant tones calling out the merits of his Rapid Robust Resolute Resolvent and other wares.
There was a large throng about the wagon, and business was good. The professor, looking over the heads of his audience recognized our heroes, and nodded to them pleasantly, yet never ceasing his “patter.” Between the sale of his remedies and soap, he rendered several ballads accompanying himself on the banjo.
“It sure does remind me of old times!” exclaimed Pete, humming the chorus of the song the professor was singing.
“Cut it out!” advised Cap hastily.
Bill was not very talkative, but Whistle-Breeches enjoyed the affair immensely, and was greatly interested in what Professor Clatter called his “patter.”
“We ought to get him to some of our class rackets,” said Donald. “He’d be no end of a lark.”