Dave Porter's Return to School. Winning the Medal of Honor. Stratemeyer Edward
glad to see you back, old man!"
So the cries rang on, as Dave and the others left the carryall. Dave was surrounded, and half a dozen tried to shake hands at once.
"We want you on the football team, Dave," said one.
"I'm glad to know you found your folks," added another.
"You've come back to stay now, haven't you?" asked a third.
Dave shook hands all around. As the school song had it, the place felt just like home. For the time being his heart was lighter than ever, and his return to Oak Hall filled him with more pleasure than words can express.
CHAPTER IV
IN THE DORMITORY
It took Dave several days to settle down and during that time he heard but little from Gus Plum and Nat Poole, who prudently kept their distance, awaiting the time when they might do Dave some injury.
During those days Roger Morr and Phil Lawrence arrived, both hale and hearty from their trip with Dave across the Pacific. The senator's son had spent two days in Washington with his father, while Phil had been settling up some affairs with his parent regarding the cargo of the Stormy Petrel.
"This is certainly like old times," remarked Roger, as the crowd sat in their dormitory. "I hope we have as much sport as we did last season."
"We will have, don't worry," answered Phil.
"Provided Job Haskers doesn't stop us," said Buster Beggs, who was lying across one of the beds. "Tell you what, boys, he is sharp on this term. Yesterday he caught me writing on the boathouse wall and he made me write 'chirography' five hundred times."
"Well, that's a good way to improve your handwriting," answered Dave, with a smile. "I've done a little of that sort of thing myself."
"He kept me in two hours yesterday, when I wanted to play football," growled Shadow Hamilton. "It was a burning shame."
"But what did you do?" questioned Roger.
"Oh, nothing much. Nat Poole was coming down the aisle and he made a face at me. I happened to stretch out my leg and Poole tripped and went flat. Then old Haskers said it was all my fault."
"And what did Poole say?" asked Sam, with interest.
"Oh, he threatened to punch me good – but he didn't do it. He started to quarrel after school, but Gus Plum called him off."
"Well, that was queer," observed Dave. "Generally Gus is out for a fight."
"Which puts me in mind of a story," came from Shadow. "A little – "
"Narrative No. 206," broke in Sam.
"You shan't keep me from telling it," went on Shadow, calmly. "A little man – "
"How small?" asked Roger, with a wink at the others.
"Oh, that hasn't anything to do with it. A little man once met another man – "
"Was the other man small, too?" questioned Phil, seriously.
"Never mind if he was or not. A little man once met another man who had a big bulldog with him – "
"What was the color of the bulldog?" asked Dave.
"What color? See here, I – "
"When you tell a story, Shadow, give us the details, by all means. Was he white or black, red or yellow? Or maybe he was cream-color, or sky-pink, or – "
"He was – er – he was a regular bulldog color. Well, this man – "
"Sort of a brownish blue, with a dash of crimson and violet," suggested Phil.
"He was a regular common, everyday bulldog, only he was very big and very savage."
"Muzzled, of course," came from Roger. "Bulldogs always are."
"I saw one once that wasn't," added Buster Beggs.
"Some of 'em wear silver-plated muzzles," observed Sam.
"Do you mean to say this bulldog had a silver-plated muzzle?" demanded Dave, turning to Shadow.
"Who in creation said he had a muzzle?" cried the would-be story-teller. "I said – "
"I know you did, Shadow dear," said Luke Watson, who sat on a low stool with his banjo in his lap, tuning up. "Don't let them sidetrack you, or the bulldog either."
"What I want to know is this," said Phil, impressively. "Were those men white or black? That may have a very important bearing on the moral of the tale."
"See here, if you don't want to hear the story – " began Shadow, half angrily.
"We do! we do!" came from several at once.
"We are dying for you to finish," said Roger. "Now start up again. A small bulldog once came along, leading a big, fierce man – "
"That's not right," broke in Buster. "A small bulldog once met another bulldog leading a bulldog-colored man who – "
"Great Cæsar! That's as bad as the story of the canner," broke in Sam. "The canner can eat what he can and what he can't he can can, can't he?" And a laugh went up.
"I am going to tell this story if I die for it," cried Shadow. "A small man – remember that – met another man – remember that – with a big, fierce bulldog – remember that. The small man was afraid, but he didn't want to show it, so he said to the man with the bulldog: 'Is that dog a valuable animal?' 'Yes,' says the other man. 'Well, don't let him loose, then.' 'Why not?' 'Because I don't like dogs and I might hurt him.' Now there's the story, and you've got to swallow it whether you want to or not."
"Which puts me in mind of a song," said Luke Watson. "Sam, you know it, and can join in," and he began, accompanying himself on the banjo:
"I love him, I love him,
He's down at the gate;
He's waiting to meet me
No matter how late.
He loves me so truly,
It fills me with joy
To hug him and kiss him —
My poodle dog, Floy!"
The song rang out clearly and sweetly, and when the verse was repeated the others joined in. But then came a knock at the door, and Jim Murphy, the big-hearted monitor, appeared.
"Hush! not so loud," he whispered, warningly. "Haskers is coming upstairs." And then the monitor disappeared again.
"I know what that means," said Luke, and rising he put his banjo away in a closet. "He stopped me before – he shan't have the chance to do it again."
The boys had scarcely settled themselves when Job Haskers appeared and gazed sharply around the dormitory. He found all the boys either writing or studying.
"Who is making that noise up here?" he demanded.
To this there was no reply.
"If I hear any more of it I shall punish everybody in this room," added the assistant teacher, and went out again, closing the door sharply after him.
"He's in an elegant humor to-night," was Phil's comment. "Must have swallowed some tacks, or a cup of vinegar."
"He ought to be taken down a peg," said Shadow, who had not forgotten how he had been kept in. "I wish we could do something like last term when we got Farmer Cadmore's ram up in his room and – "
"That's it," cried Buster. "Only it won't do to try the same joke twice. We'll have to think up something new. Polly, give us an idea."
He turned to Bertram Vane, who sat at a table, trying to write a composition. Bertram was very girlish in appearance, hence the nickname.
"Please don't bother me now," pleaded Polly. "I want to finish this composition."
"We want some idea to work off on Haskers. Open up your knowledge box, Polly," came from Phil.
"Really I can't," returned the girlish student. "I am writing a composition on Bats, and I want