“I’ll lay you even money that Langridge can whip you in a fair fight.”
“Why, you little freshie,” exclaimed Phil, “fair fights are the only kind we have at Randall! We don’t have ’em very often, but every time we do Tom puts the kibosh all over your friend Langridge. Another thing—it isn’t healthy for freshies to bet too much. They might go broke,” and with these words of advice Phil caught up his end of the sofa and Tom the other. It was soon in the room the three sophomore chums had selected.
“Now for the chair and the rest of the truck,” called Phil.
“Oh, let’s rest a bit,” suggested Sid, as he stretched out on the sofa. No sooner had he reached a reclining position than he sat up suddenly.
“Wow!” he cried. “What in the name of the labors of Hercules is that?”
He drew from the back of his coat a long nail.
“Why, I must have left it on the sofa when I fixed it,” said Phil innocently. “I wondered what had become of it.”
“You needn’t wonder any longer,” spoke Sid ruefully. “Tom, take a look, that’s a good chap, and see if there’s a very big hole in my back. I think my lungs are punctured.”
“Not a bit of it, from the way you let out that yell,” said Phil. “That will teach you not to take a siesta during moving operations.”