“Thunderation!” cried the author of the mischief, almost as much astonished as the unfortunate “Count.”
The latter completely disappeared for an instant, and when his bushy head came in sight above the surface, gone was the humorous twinkle in his eye, gone was the smile which had curved his lips.
“Gee whiz, this is no place for us,” murmured Joe. “He looks peevish—perhaps he dislikes water.”
“It’s had a frightful effect on him, anyhow,” laughed Dave.
“Whew!” sputtered the “Count.” “I’ve swallowed a gallon of the saltest water that man ever tasted. Who throw’d it, Bobby?”
“That little fat one.”
“Ketch ’im, then!” roared the “Count,” wading toward the bank with an energy that indicated trouble ahead. “Quick now, Bobby. Jist let me git a hold of ’im. Quick! He’s goin’ ter rue the day he left his own little fireside.”
And the “Duke,” heeding the lusty voice of his companion, leaped ashore and made directly toward the group.
But they resolutely held their ground.
Jack Lyons’ eyes began to flash. The fellows who had played against him at football knew the look that was in his eyes now.