Chapter 5 IN "PITCHFORK'S" PLACE

"Well I say now! I wonder what's up? Could I have--" Thus began Shambler to commune with himself as he watched Tom. "Something's wrong. He doesn't like Langridge and Gerhart, that's evident. I must find out about this."

Which he very soon did, after a short talk with his new chums, and my readers may be sure that Tom and his friends did not get any of the best of the showing, in the account Langridge and his crony gave of their affair, and the reasons for their withdrawal to Boxer Hall, told of in a previous volume of this series.

"Humph! If that's the kind of lads they are I don't want anything to do with them," said Shambler, as he gazed after the retreating inseparables, following the tale of Langridge and Gerhart.

"They're not our style at all," declared Langridge with a sneer. "Still, don't let us keep you from them, if you'd rather train in their camp."

"Oh, I'm out for a good time!" declared Shambler boastfully. "I only tried to get in with them as I heard they were in the athletic crowd, and--"

"Hot athletes they are!" sneered Gerhart. "Say, if this talked-of an all-around athletic contest comes off this Spring, and our college goes in for it, we'll wipe up the field with Randall, and Fairview too. They won't know they started. I don't see why you didn't come to Boxer Hall, Shambler."

"I wish I had, but it's too late now. But say, I'm going in for athletics, even if you fellows think you can do us up. I don't have to train with the Parsons crowd to do it though."

"No," admitted Langridge. "And so you offered to introduce Tom Parsons to us. Ha! Ha! No wonder he shied off!" and he laughed sneeringly. "But, if we're going to town, come on before it gets too late." And with that the trio swung off toward the trolley line that would take them to Haddonfield.

Meanwhile Tom and his chums tramped over the snow-covered campus, idly kicking the white flakes aside.

"Doesn't look much like baseball; does it?" remarked Tom, as he made a snowball, and tossed it high in the air.

"No, but it can't last forever," declared Sid. "I say, did any of you hear anything more about having a track team, and going in for field athletics this Spring?"

"Only general talk," replied Phil.

"There goes Dutch Housenlager," spoke Frank. "Let's see if he knows anything."

"He's got his back turned," whispered Tom. "It's a good chance to play a joke on him. Get in front of him, Sid, and be talking to him. I'll sneak up, and kneel down in back. Then give him a gentle push and he'll upset and turn a somersault over me."

"Good!" ejaculated Phil. "It will be one that we've owed Dutch for a long time."

The trick was soon in process of being played. While Sid held the big lad in earnest conversation, about the possibility of a track team for Randall, Tom silently knelt down behind him. Then Sid, seeing that all was in readiness, spoke:

"Have you seen the new style of putting the shot, Dutch?"

"Not that I know of," replied the unsuspecting one. "How is it done?"

"This way," answered Sid as, with a quick pressure against the chest of Dutch, he sent him sprawling over Tom's bent back, legs and arms outstretched.

"Here! I say! Wow! What--"

But the rest that Dutch gave expression to was unintelligible, for he and Tom were rolling over and over in the snow, tightly clenched.

"Event number one. Putting the shot!" cried Sid, after the manner of an announcer giving a score at track games, "Dutch Housenlager thirty-seven feet, six and one-quarter inches!"

"Oh, dry up!" commanded Dutch, as he skillfully tripped Tom, who had arisen to his feet. "That's one on me all right. Now, if you fellows are done laughing, I've got a bit of news for you."

"About athletics?" asked Frank eagerly.

"No, but we're going to have a new teacher in Pitchfork's place to-morrow."

"No!" cried Tom, half disbelieving, as he got up and brushed the snow from his garments.

"But yes!" insisted Dutch. "Our beloved and respected Professor Emerson Tines-alias Pitchfork-has been called to deliver a lecture on the habits of the early Romans contrasted with those of the cave dwellers. It's to take place before some high-brow society to-night, and he can't get back here to-morrow in time to take his classes. He's going to provide a substitute."

"Oh joy!" cried Phil.

"Wait," cautioned Frank. "The remedy may be worse than the disease."

"Who's the sub?" asked Tom.

"Professor H. A. Broadkins, according to the bulletin board," replied Dutch.

"What's 'H. A.' stand for?" Sid wanted to know.

"Ha! Ha! of course," replied Tom promptly.

"Joke!" spoke Frank solemnly.

"Harold Archibald," declared Sid. "Oh, say, we won't do a thing to him. I'll wager he's one of these pink and white little men, who wears a number twelve collar, and parts his hair in the middle, so he can walk a crack. Say, will to-morrow ever come?"

"Don't take too much for granted," advised Dutch. "I picked out a Harold Archibald once as an easy mark, and I got left. This may not be the same one, but-well, come on down the street. I've got a quarter that's burning a hole in my pocket, and we might as well help Dobbins raise the mortgage on his drug store, by getting some hot chocolate there."

"Pro bono publico!" ejaculated Tom. "Your deeds will live after you, Dutch."

"And if you upset me again, you'll go to an early grave," declared the big lad, as the five strolled off to recuperate after the arduous labors of the day.

When Tom and his chums filed into Latin recitation the next morning, there was a feeling of expectancy on all sides, for the word had gone around that there might be "something doing" in regard to the professor who had come to temporarily fill the place of "Pitchfork."

No one had seen him, as yet, but his probable name of "Harold Archibald," had been bandied about until it was felt sure that it was an index to his character and build. Judge then, of the surprise of the lads, when they found awaiting them a tall man of dark complexion, with a wealth of dark hair, and a face like that of some football player. He was muscular to a degree. There was a gasp of distinct surprise, and several lads who had come "not prepared" began to dip surreptitiously into their Latin books, while others, who had contemplated various and sundry tricks, at once gave them over.

"Good morning, gentlemen," began Professor H. A. Broadkins, in a deep, but not unpleasant voice. (It developed later that his name was Hannibal Achilles.) "I am sorry your regular teacher is not here, but I will do the best I can. You will recite in the usual way."

Thereupon, much to the surprise of the boys, he began giving them a little history of the particular lesson for the day, roughly sketching the events which led up to the happenings, and giving reasons for them. It was much more interesting than when "Pitchfork" had the class and the boys did their best.

But Dutch Housenlager had to have his joke.

The lesson had to do with some of the Roman conquests, and, in order to illustrate how a certain battle was fought the professor, by means of books constructed a sort of model walled city. The besiegers were represented by more books, outside the walls.

"This was one of the first battles in which the catapult was used," went on the instructor. "You can imagine the surprise of the besieged army when the Romans wheeled this great engine of war close to the walls, and began hurling great stones. In a measure the catapult served to cover the attack on another part of the city.

"For instance we will make a sort of catapult by means of this ruler. This piece of mineral will do for the stone, and er-I think I will ask one of you young men to assist me-er-you," and he pointed to Dutch. "Just come here, and you may work the catapult when I give the word. I want to show the class how the other division of the army sapped the walls."

There came into the eyes of Dutch a gleam of mischief, as he looked at the improvised catapult. It consisted of a ruler balanced on a book, with a piece of mineral, from a cabinet of geological specimens, for the stone. By tapping the unweighted end of the ruler smartly the rock could be made to fly over into the midst of the besieged city. But Dutch also noticed something else.

There was, on the table where the professor had laid out his map of battle, an inkwell. When he thought the teacher was not looking Dutch substituted the ink for the stone. A tap on the ruler would now send the inkwell flying. Mr. Broadkins did not seem to notice this as he went on with his preparations to sap the city walls.

"Now we are all ready," he announced. "You may operate the catapult," he added, apparently not looking at it, and Dutch, with a grin at his chums, prepared to hit the ruler a good blow. He calculated that the ink would be well distributed.

Suddenly the professor changed his plans. Without seemingly looking at Dutch, or the catapult, he said:

"On second thoughts you may come here-er-Mr. Housenlager. I will work the catapult, and you may represent the invading division. All ready now. Stand here."

Dutch dared not disobey, nor dare he change the inkwell for the innocent stone. Yet he knew, and all the class could see, that he was standing where he would get a dusky bath in another minute. And the professor appeared all unconscious of the inkwell.

"Ready!" called Mr. Broadkins, and he struck the unweighted end of the ruler a smart blow.

Up into the air rose the bottle of ink. It described a graceful curve, and then descended. Dutch tried to dodge, but, somehow, he was not quick enough, and the inkwell hit him on the shoulder. Up splashed the black fluid, and a moment later Dutch looked like a negro minstrel, while a new pink tie, of which he was exceedingly proud, took on a new and wonderful pattern in burnt cork splatter design.

"Wow! Wuff!" spluttered the fun-loving student, as some ink went in his mouth. And then the class roared.

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