“This way,” answered Sid as, with a quick pressure against the chest of Dutch, he sent him sprawling over Tom’s bent back, legs and arms outstretched.
“Here! I say! Wow! What——”
But the rest that Dutch gave expression to was unintelligible, for he and Tom were rolling over and over in the snow, tightly clenched.
“Event number one. Putting the shot!” cried Sid, after the manner of an announcer giving a score at track games, “Dutch Housenlager thirty-seven feet, six and one-quarter inches!”
“Oh, dry up!” commanded Dutch, as he skillfully tripped Tom, who had arisen to his feet. “That’s one on me all right. Now, if you fellows are done laughing, I’ve got a bit of news for you.”
“About athletics?” asked Frank eagerly.
“No, but we’re going to have a new teacher in Pitchfork’s place to-morrow.”
“No!” cried Tom, half disbelieving, as he got up and brushed the snow from his garments.
“But yes!” insisted Dutch. “Our beloved and respected Professor Emerson Tines—alias Pitchfork—has been called to deliver a lecture on the habits of the early Romans contrasted with those of the cave dwellers. It’s to take place before some high-brow society to-night, and he can’t get back here to-morrow in time to take his classes. He’s going to provide a substitute.”
“Oh joy!” cried Phil.