“We’ll draw lots to see who has the honor of first sitting in the old chair, and then we’ll get out on the field,” suggested Tom.
He himself drew the lucky number. With something of a little ceremony he made ready to sink down into the depths of the chair. Slowly he let himself back.
A cloud of dust, as of yore, arose around him, making Phil, Sid and Frank sneeze.
“They’re greeting you, old chap!” cried Tom to the chair.
He leaned back. His chums, watching him, saw a look of wonder come over his face. Then his hand went under the seat, and began feeling there. Tom leaped up, raising more dust—a regular cloud.
“What’s the matter? A pin stick you?” asked Sid.
“A pin? No. But, say, fellows, this isn’t our chair!”
“Not our chair?” echoed Phil.
“Not—not——” faltered Sid.
“Not our chair!” exclaimed Tom, decidedly, as he sat down in it again. “Here, Phil, you try it. It looks like our chair, and it’s built like it—upholstery and all—it’s a dead ringer, in fact, but it’s not ours!” and Tom moved aside while Phil got ready to make the test.