“It’s going to be my painful and embarrassing duty to stuff a towel in your silly mouth in about two minutes,” replied Clint.  “How did you happen to see practice?  I thought you were going to play tennis with Scannel.”

“He didn’t show up.  I suppose his courage failed him at the last moment.”

“Yes, it must be trying to beat anyone the way he beats you.  I don’t blame him for shirking it.”

“When Bob Scannel beats me,” replied Amy serenely, “you’ll be playing football on the Varsity, old top, and I’ll be getting A’s in math., a far, far day!”

“I suppose I’ll be going to training table before long,” said Clint reflectively.

Amy groaned.  “There you go!  That’s the sort of stuff I’ll have to listen to from now on.  I hope to goodness you choke on a prune!  That’s about all you’ll get there; prunes and boiled rice.  I’m not sure about the rice, either, at the second’s table.  I think the second simply has prunes.  Boiled prunes for breakfast, roast prunes for dinner and dried prunes for supper.  I—­I shall expect to notice a wonderful imprunement in you very soon, Clint.”

“And that’s the sort of stuff I have to listen to!” exclaimed the other.  “Honest, Amy, you make the bummest jokes!”

“I think that was rather good, myself,” said Amy cheerfully.  “I believe I’ll send it to the Bulletin.  I’ve observed of late that the Bulletin has lacked humour.”

“Did it ever have any?” asked Clint, folding the letter he had been struggling over.

“Unconsciously, yes.  Last year someone contributed a sonnet called ‘Truth.’  No one could see much sense in it until some smart chap discovered that the first letters of each line spelled ’The Bulletin is Punk.’  Now when you want anything printed in the Bulletin you have to send a sworn statement that there isn’t an acrostic concealed in it.  The editors went gunning for the fellow who sent in the sonnet, but they never found him.”

Clint laughed.  “They didn’t try 14 Torrence, then, did they?” he inquired.  Amy smiled noncommittingly.

“Your insinuation pains me,” he murmured.

“Why don’t you deny it, then?”

“It is quite unnecessary.  Anyone knowing my blameless career—­”

“Have you saved a copy of it?”

“I believe there’s one somewhere in my scrapbook,” replied Amy carelessly.  “Some time, if you are good, I’ll look it up.  Meanwhile, if you’re through with your ridiculous chatter, we’ll go to supper.”

CHAPTER VI

THE RUNAWAY WHEEL