These were some of the cries of derision that greeted Ford Fenton’s mention of his uncle. The gentleman had once been a coach at Randall, and a very good one, too, but his nephew was doing much to spoil his reputation.
For, at every chance he got, and at times when there was no opportunity but such as he made, Ford would quote his aforesaid uncle, upon any and all subjects, to the no small disapproval of his college mates. So they had gotten into the habit of “rigging” him every time he mentioned his relative.
“I don’t care,” Ford said, when the chorus of exclamations had ceased. “My uncle——”
But he got no further, for the students made a rush for him and buried him out of sight in a pile of wriggling arms and legs.
“First down; ten yards to gain!” yelled some one.
“Come on, now’s our chance,” said Tom. “First thing we know they’ll do that to our sofa, and then it will be all up with the poor old thing. Let’s move on.”
Once more the chums took up their burden, and walked toward the west dormitory. By this time the throng had done with punishing poor Fenton, and once more turned its attention to the movers.
“Going to split it up for firewood?” called Ed Kerr.
“No; it’s full of germs, and they’re going to dig ’em out and use ’em in the biology class,” suggested Dan Woodhouse, who was more commonly called Kindlings.
“Maybe they’re going to make a folding bed of it,” came from Bricktop Molloy. “Come on, fellows, let’s investigate.”