"Well, well!" he exclaimed, reproachfully; "this here is a surprise—who throw'd it?"
"See here, old sport," said Sanders, ignoring the question, and pointing to the cask, "why did you chuck that in the lake?"
"H'm," Neil Prescott looked at the speaker calmly; "you're another one of them quizzers from Quizzerville—jest joined, eh? Hain't got me life's history writ out yet, an'——"
"Aw—wake up, an' answer me."
"Yes—go ahead, Neil," coaxed Sam Randall.
"Didn't yer never hear tell of them scientists what do all sorts o' funny things?"
"What's this 'bout yer buyin' three tons of grub a week, old sport?" asked Sanders, rudely.
"I kin swear I ain't buyin' an ounce over a ton," replied Neil, as he filled a very large pipe and winked at Tommy Clifton. "No, fur a fact, I hain't."
Tom Sanders sniffed.
"Now, old sport, you ain't as smart as you think. What was you a-goin' ter do with them 'taters back there?" A jerk of his thumb indicated the direction.