A storm of merriment burst forth. The boys danced around, holding their sides, while Hackett, his color rising, glared from one to the other with an expression of the greatest disgust.
"Oh, this is the richest joke I ever heard of," shouted Nat Wingate. "Hacky settled him with that crack on the head. 'Look out, he's going to spring.' Oh, those 'blazing eyes.'" Almost convulsed with laughter, the ex-leader of the Nimrods sent the stuffed specimen once again flying through the air.
Then followed a scene suggestive of the football field. Between rushes could be seen glimpses of a sadly kicked and battered object rising and falling and hurtling back and forth.
"Twenty-five doctors wouldn't have done me as much good as this," declared Nat. "Cheer up, Hacky—you look so sad."
"Never mind what I look like," returned Hackett, fiercely. "Stop your giggling, Tommy Clifton. I owe you one, and—"
"Oh, ho!" exclaimed Dave Brandon. "Such is life in the wilderness. There's somebody around here with a sense of humor."
"It would have turned to sadness, if I'd met him," said John Hackett. "I believe it's those fellows across the lake. Smoke signals—all in my eye—they just came over to see the lay of the camp."
"How about Sladder and Musgrove?" asked Dick Travers.
"They haven't brains enough."
"And those awful cries?"