“All right; I will, Joe.” Mr. Harrow grasped the brown hand hanging by Joel's side.
“Really?” said Joel, swallowing hard.
“Really. Run back to your books, and trust me.”
So Joel dashed back, not minding the alluring cries from several chums, “Come on—just time for a game before supper,” and was back before his table in the same attitude, and hanging to his hair.
“I can study better so,” he said, and holding on for dear life.
One or two boys glanced in. “Come out of this hole,” they cried. “No need to study for to-morrow. Gee whiz! just think of Moose Island, Joe.”
No answer.
“Joe!” They ran in and shook his shoulders. “Moose Island!” they screamed, and the excitement with which the whole school was charged was echoing it through the length of the dormitory.
“Go away,” cried Joel at them, “or I'll fire something at you,” as they swarmed around his chair.
“Fire your old grammar,” suggested one, trying to twitch away his book; and another pulled the chair out from under him.