The table had been set out in front of the tents when the fat boy and
his companion came in sight of the camp.
"Whew! but I'm hungry!" announced Stacy Brown.
"But you didn't think of it until you saw the table set, did you?"
"It wasn't the table, it was the shaking up I got back there that made
me feel full of emptiness."
"Huh!"
"I've got an idea, Ned."
"For goodness' sake, keep it to yourself, then. When you have an idea
it spells trouble for everybody else around you."
"Bet you I can."
"Can what?" snorted Ned.
"Bet you I can jump the dinner table and you can't."
"Bet you can't."
"Bet I can, and without even knocking a fly off the milk pitcher."
"Go on, you! You try it first, and, if you don't make it, you lose. I
don't have to try it if I don't want to," agreed Ned, with rare
prudence.
Chunky was fairly hugging himself with glee, but he took good care
that Ned Rector did not observe his satisfaction.
"If you don't you're a tenderfoot," taunted Stacy.
"I'll show you who's the tenderfoot. You go ahead and bolt the dinner,
table and all, if you dare. Now, then!"
Stacy gathered up his reins. There was mischief in his eyes, which
were fixed on the table, neatly set for the evening meal.
"You start right after me. They'll be surprised to see a procession of
ponies going over the table, won't they?"
"Somebody'll be surprised. May not be the Professor and Santa Claus,
though," growled Ned.
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