LITMIR.BIZ

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      "Or how Hannibal crossed the Delaware and defeated the Turks at the Alamo."

      "I can't make no speech," pleaded the carryall driver. "Just you let me go, please!"

      "If you can't make a speech, sing," suggested another. "Give us Yankee Doodle in the key of J minor."

      "Or that beautiful lullaby entitled, 'You Never Miss Your Purse Until You Have to Walk Home.' Give us that in nine flats, will you?"

      "I tell you I can't make a speech and I can't sing!" shouted out the driver for the school, desperately.

      "How sad! Can't speechify and can't sing! All right, then, let it go, and give us a dance."

      "That's the talk! A real Japanese jig in five-quarter time."

      There was a rush, and in a twinkling poor Horsehair was boosted to the top of a big packing-case, that had been hauled to the spot as fuel for one of the bonfires.

      "The stage!" announced one of the students, with a wave of his hand. "The World-Renowned Horsehairsky will perform his celebrated Dance of the Hop Scotch. Get your opera glasses ready."

      "What's the admission fee?"

      "Two pins and a big green apple."

      "I can't dance--I ain't never danced in my life!" pleaded the victim. "You let me go. I've got to take care o' my hosses."

      While he was speaking Buster Beggs had come up behind Horsehair and placed something attached to a dark string on the box, between the driver's feet. It was an imitation snake, made of rubber and colored up to look very natural.

      "Oh my, look at the snake!" yelled several, in pretended alarm.

      "Where? where?" yelled Horsehair.

      "There, right between your feet! He's going to bite you on the leg!"

      "Take care, that's a rattler sure!"

      "If he bites you, Horsehair, you'll be a dead man!"

      "Take him off! Take him off!" bawled the carryall driver, and in terror he made a wild leap from the packing-box and landed directly on the shoulders of two of the students. Then he dropped to the ground, rolled over, got up, and ran as fast as his legs could carry him in the direction of the stables. A wild laugh followed him, but to this he paid no attention.

      "Well, we are certainly having a night of it," remarked Dave, after the fun had quieted down for a moment. He spoke to Roger.

      "Where is Phil?" asked the senator's son.

      "Went off with Ben, I think."

      "Where to?"

      "I don't know."

      "It's queer how much they keep together lately; isn't it?" continued Roger.

      "Oh, I don't know. Of course that affair with Haskers may have something to do with it," answered our hero, slowly.

      "I wish Haskers would leave this school, Dave."

      "Oh, it won't make much difference to us, if we graduate, whether he stays or not."

      "I know that. But, somehow, I don't think he is a good man to have here, even if he is a learned instructor. He never enters into the school spirit, as Mr. Dale does."

      "Well, we can't all be alike."

      "Would you keep him, if you were in Doctor Clay's shoes?"

      "I hardly think so. Certainly not if I could find another teacher equally good."

      The boys walked on until they found themselves at the last bonfire of the line, close to where the school grounds came to an end. Here was a hedge, and beyond were the woods reaching up from the river.

      "Nobody down by this bonfire," remarked Dave. "Say, this is careless work," he added. "The wind might shift and set the woods on fire."

      "I didn't think they'd start a fire so far from the others," answered his chum.

      "Let us kick it into the water," suggested our hero, and this they started to do, when, unexpectedly, a voice hailed them, and they saw a student sitting in a tree that grew in the hedge which separated the campus from the woods.

      "Let that fire alone!" the youth called, angrily.

      "Why, it's Nat Poole!" exclaimed Roger, in a low voice. "Whatever is he doing in that tree?"

      "I am sure I don't know," returned Dave.

      "Is he alone?"

      "He seems to be."

      "Do you hear what I say?" went on the money-lender's son. "Leave that fire alone."

      "Did you build it?" asked Dave.

      "I did, and I want you to leave it alone."

      "All right, Nat, if you say so," answered Roger. "We thought it had been abandoned and that it might set fire to the woods."

      To this Nat Poole did not reply. Plainly he was annoyed at being discovered in his present position. Dave and Roger looked around, to see if anybody else was in the vicinity, and then, turning, walked in the direction of the other bonfires.

      "What do you make of that, Dave?" asked the senator's son, presently.

      "It looked to me as if Nat was waiting or watching for somebody, Roger."

      "So it did. The question is, Who was it?"

      "I don't know. But I've got something of an idea."

      "Some of the students?"

      "No. That wild man."

      CHAPTER XII

      PLANS FOR A SPREAD

      "That wild man?" exclaimed the senator's son, stopping short to stare at Dave.

      "Yes."

      "How do you make that out?"

      "Because I think Nat is interested in the fellow, although just how I won't pretend to say. But you'll remember how excited he got when he found out that the wild man called himself the King of Sumatra."

      "Oh, I see. You think he knows the fellow and thought that the bonfire might attract him to the place."

      "Yes. I've heard it said that crazy folks were sometimes attracted by the sight of fire. Maybe Nat has heard the same and wants to see if it will work in the case of this man."

      "Shall we go back and see what happens?" suggested Roger.

      Dave mused for a moment.

      "Would it be just right to play the spy, Roger?"

      "Well, this isn't playing the spy in the ordinary sense of the term, Dave. That wild man ought to be locked up."

      "But it may not be the wild man he is looking for."

      "Oh, let us go back a little while, anyway," urged the senator's son.

      They retraced their steps until within fifty feet of the bonfire and then walked to the shelter of the hedge. They thought they had not been seen, but they were mistaken.

      "Humph! so you think you are going to spy on me, after all!" cried a voice, and Nat Poole came towards them, with a deep frown on his face.

      "It's rather queer you are in the tree," answered Roger, somewhat sharply.

      "It's my affair, not yours, Roger Morr!" roared the money-lender's son. Then, without another word, he

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