Then Tom gave the fleshy lad a punch that sent him into Chot’s arms, and Chot shoved him on to one of the beds in a sitting posture. Then the boys tipped Fleet over, one sat on his chest, the other on his feet, and despite his struggles, he was unable to do anything but writhe and twist.
“Nice way to treat a fellow,” he cried. “Nice—”
“Whoa!” shouted Tom. “Now, tell us what you were going to.”
“I refuse!”
“Then take this,” said Chot, and plunging his fingers into Fleet’s ribs, he tickled him until he fairly squealed.
“Oh, I’ll tell—I’ll tell!” cried Fleet. “You fellows think you’re smart, don’t you, but I’ll get square for this.”
“Oh, he’s going to get square,” said Chot. “He don’t want anything out of that box we received from home to-day.”
“No; express packages from Mortonville don’t interest Fleet,” Tom replied.
“Especially when they contain jam and cookies.”
“Eh? What’s that?” cried Fleet, trying to sit up. He stopped struggling.