"And some one with him," added Ned, as a second figure came into view.
At that instant the lad in the rear slipped, plunged head foremost down the remaining half dozen steps, knocking Clay to one side, and sprawled out in the doorway like a flattened frog.
Ned and Randy sprang up and hurried through the room.
"Why, it's Nugget," they exclaimed in great surprise. "Where did you come from, old fellow? We're awfully glad to see you."
Nugget, otherwise known as Nugent Blundell, rose painfully to his feet and glared at the boys.
"Why don't you ask me if I'm hurt?" he demanded wrathfully. "I believe you fellows greased those steps on purpose."
"See here, Nugget, you don't believe anything of the sort," said Ned. "I'm sorry you fell, and I'm glad you're not hurt. Come, old fellow, shake hands."
Nugget's face assumed a mollified expression, and he accepted a hearty handclasp from Ned and Randy. Then he began to brush the dust from his neat gray suit and patent leather shoes.
Meanwhile Clayton Halsey had been fairly choking with stifled mirth in a dark corner of the room. He now came forward, trying hard to assume an expression of gravity.
He was a short, thickset lad, with a beaming countenance, red cheeks, blue eyes, and light curly hair. He was in the same class at the academy with Ned and Randy, and their constant companion on all occasions. His father was a prominent lawyer.