on
there! La-da-da-dee! One, two, three!"

_In course of time, I reached the Third Form,
But was caught in examination's snare.
Reassignment played its part,
And it almost broke my heart,
About five miles away from anywhere._

"What house are you in?" said the Coffee-Colored Angel to Stover,
between breaths.

"Kennedy."

"The Roman, eh?"

"Yes, he reached out and nabbed me," said Stover, who was persuaded
that his new assignment was a special mark of malignant interest.

"Who are you rooming with?"

"The Tennessee Shad."

"Well, you'll be a warm bunch!"

A shout burst out from the back of the coach.

"A race, a race!"

"Here come the Tennessee Shad and Brian de Boru."

"Turn out, Jimmy!"

"Give 'em room!"

"Go it, Dennis!"

"Go it, Shad!"

Two runabouts came up at a gallop, neck and neck, four boys in each,
the Tennessee Shad standing at the reins in one, Dennis de Brian de
Boru Finnegan in the other, each firmly clutched about the waist by
the boy on whose knees he jolted and jostled.

"Push on the reins!"

"Home run, Dennis!"

"Swim out, you Shad!"

"Pass him, Dennis! Pass him!"

"Shad wins!"

"Look at his form, will you!"

"Oh, you jockey!"

"Shad wins!"

"Hurrah!"

"Hurray!"

"Hurroo!"

But at this moment, when it seemed as though the race was to go to the
Tennessee Shad's nag, which had that superiority which one sacrificial
horse in a Spanish bullfight ring has over another, Dennis de Brian de
Boru suddenly produced the remnants of a bag of cream puffs and, by
means of three well-directed, squashing shots on the rear quarters of
his coal-black steed, plunged ahead and won the road, amid terrific
cheering.

"Dennis forever!"

"Oh, you, Brian de Boru!"

"Get an eclair, Shad!"

"Get an omelet!"

"Get a tomato!"

"Get out and push!"

The racers disappeared in mingled clouds of dust.

Macnooder, whirling around like a dervish on the stage top, conducted
the next verse. Suddenly another shout went up.

"Here comes Charlie DeSoto and Flash Condit."

"Three cheers for the football team!"

"How are you, Charlie?"

"Flash, old boy!"

"What do you weigh?"

"Pretty fit?"

"Too bad you can't run, Flash!"

"What'll we do to Andover?"

DeSoto and Condit passed, acknowledging the salutations with joyful
yelps.

"Give 'em the Fifty-six to Nothing, boys," shouted Macnooder. "All you
tenor legs get into this. Oom-pah! Oom-pah! Oom-pah! One, two,