“Why—what—what’s the matter?” stammered Fenton.
“Matter!” cried Phil. “Why, you little shrimp, I’ve a good notion to chuck you into the river!”
“Yes, the river—the beautiful, meandering, poetical river,” added Tom. “Quit it, Phil; you’re getting on my nerves. I’m glad Fenton interrupted you with a recollection of his uncle. What were you going to say about your respected relative?” he asked.
But Fenton was going to take no chances with Phil, and, turning about, he retraced his steps.
“What were you saying, Phil?” inquired Sid politely, if sarcastically.
“None of your business,” replied the quarter-back a little stiffly. “I’m going to write a poem about it,” he added more genially.
“And send it to some girl, I suppose,” went on Sid. “Oh, you make me sick!”
What further ramification the conversation might have taken is problematical, but it was interrupted just then by the arrival of Ed Kerr, who seemed in much of a hurry.
“I’ve been looking all over for you fellows,” he panted.
“Why hastenest thou thus so hastily?” asked Tom. “Is the college on fire? Has Pitchfork been taken with a fit, or has Moses sent to say we need study no more?”