“As they slept I crept upon them, one by one, seized them, gagged them, bound them all. This I did to each one in turn, without arousing the others. Having them securely bound, I meditated on my future course. It sure seemed some inhuman to hike off and leave them trussed up to starve or to be eaten by coyotes. I shuddered a plenty at the thought of tomahawking or shooting them. It was a right long time before I finally hit upon a mode of execution. Finally I removed their moccasins—stripped their feet bare. Then from the topknot of the chief I plucked some feathers. With those very feathers I proceeded to tickle first one and then another of the redskins upon the soles of his feet. In about two jiffys I had all three laughing and squirming, and the more I tickled them the more they laughed. I kept it up, gents, until those redskins laughed themselves to death.”
“Ge-gee!” exploded Phil Springer. “What a whopper!”
“Pretty fair,” nodded Roger Eliot—“pretty fair.”
Prof. Richardson entered. He paused a moment to peer over his spectacles, and his eyes fell on Rodney Grant. Slowly an expression of wonderment crept over the old man’s face.
“What’s this, young man—what’s this?” he inquired, coming forward and removing his knit woollen gloves. “What are you doing here in such a rig?”
“I reckon you’ll pardon me, Professor, but people around this neck of the woods seem to think I’m a fake Texan because I don’t look it, and therefore I took a notion to wear my cowboy regalia this afternoon.”
The professor shook his head disapprovingly. “Go home,” he said—“go home at once and change those clothes for civilized garments. I certainly shall not approve of your wearing such a rig while you attend this school.”
“Fate is against me,” murmured Rodney Grant, as he turned toward the door.