“He’s a trump!” exclaimed Hy.
To this declaration, which expressed more clearly than Zeb had done the popular verdict, there was an audible hum of assent, and Bill Jones added:
“Safe! Why, Zeb Fuller, them gimcracks in there are as safe as if they were in a church. Nobody will dream of touching them unless ’twas us.”
“I’ve my doubts,” said Zeb, profoundly. “No village is safe where there’s such a raft of ministers and deacons and doctors and trustees and such. We must do our duty, boys. Oh, but wouldn’t I like to try a chemical experiment on old Sol!”
The conclave broke up amid a storm of suggestions, but Zeb was probably thinking of something which could be done with a retort.
As for Mr. George Brayton, that vigorous young gentleman had remarked to himself, as he walked away:
“They’re rather above the average, take the whole lot, through, and that Zeb Fuller is no ordinary boy. Now that I have him the rest will follow like a flock of sheep. I must do what I can to make a man of Zeb, but I hope I’m not such a fool as to try to cork him up. He’d burst the whole Academy. No wonder Dr. Dryer’s afraid of him.”
Brayton did not look as if he were likely to be very much afraid of anything in particular, and he had just won the only complete victory that had ever been gained over the boys of Ogleport.
Even then, however, he would not have been astonished if he had overheard Zeb’s last remarks to Hy and Bill.
“You see, boys, that’s Brayton’s end of the Academy. Now, we must go to work on old Sol and the main building. There’s plenty of room for improvement there.”