“That reminds me of a story I heard the other day,” spoke up one. “The father of a friend of mine went out to hunt deer last fall. He had fair luck, but everybody was talking about a deer that had been fooling all the hunters for several seasons. It seems that this deer was such an expert dodger, that when anyone started to shoot at him he would run around in circles and thus avoid the bullet. Well, my friend’s father thought over the matter for a long time, and finally hit on a plan to outwit the deer. Can you guess how he did it?”
Many were the schemes offered by the ingenious listeners, but none of them seemed satisfactory. Finally all gave up the problem, and begged the story teller to give them the explanation.
“Well,” he said, “it’s very simple, and I’m surprised and grieved that none of you fatheads have thought of it. Why, he simply bent the barrel of the gun around, so that when the bullet came out it chased the deer around in circles, and killed him without any trouble. Now——” but here he was interrupted by a storm of indignant hoots and hisses, and rushed from the room amid a perfect shower of books of all descriptions.
“Gee,” said Tom, “I’ve heard some queer hunting stories, but that one was the limit. Many a man has died for less.”
“Oh, well, he’s more to be pitied than scorned,” laughed Dick, and they proceeded to discuss the details of Saturday’s trip.
“It will be no end of fun, I can promise you,” said Bennett. “It’s really an education in itself to go through that factory and see the way things are done. You can bet there’s no time or effort wasted there. Everything is figured down to the very last word for efficiency, and if all the world were run on the same basis it would be a pretty fine place to live in.”
“List to the philosopher, fellows,” said Bert. “I’m afraid Bennett’s studies are going to his head, and he’s actually beginning to believe what the profs tell him.”
“That is indeed a sign of failing mental powers,” laughed Tom. “I’m afraid that if we don’t do something for our poor friend, he will degenerate until finally he becomes nothing but a ‘greasy grind.’ After that, of course, he can sink no lower.”
“Aw, you fellows think you’re funny, don’t you,” grunted Bennett, disgustedly, “you’re such boneheads that when somebody with real brains, like myself, for instance, gets off a little gem of thought you are absolutely incapable of appreciating it.”
“Fellows,” said Bert, gravely, “we have made an important discovery. Bennett has brains. We know this is so, because he himself admits it. Well, well, who would have suspected it?”