[CHAPTER VII]
THROUGH THE ICE
“Shove over, Tom.”
“Say, what do you want, the whole sofa?”
“No, but give a fellow his share, can’t you?” and Phil looked down on his chum, who was sprawled over a goodly part of the ancient and honorable article of furniture. “Sid has one armchair, and Frank the other, and I want some place to rest my weary bones,” declared Phil. “I’ve been out with the natural history class after bugs, and other specimens, and I’ll wager we walked ten miles. Give me a place to rest.”
“Try the floor,” grunted Tom, who was too comfortable to move. “What do you want to come in for raising a row, just as we’re nice and cozy?”
“Say, haven’t I a right here?” demanded Phil. “Who helped fix that old sofa, I’d like to know, when all its bones were showing? Give me a whack at it, Tom.”
But Tom refused to budge, and presently, in the room of the four inseparables, there was a scuffling sound, and the tall pitcher felt himself being suddenly slewed around by the feet, until there was room enough for another on the sofa. But Phil did the gymnastic act too well, for he shoved Tom a bit too far, and, a moment later one hundred and fifty pounds more or less, slumped to the floor with a jar.
“There, now you have done it!” cried Sid, as he sprang from one of the easy chairs, and made a grab for the fussy little alarm clock, that had been jarred from its place on the table by the concussion of Tom’s fall.