short row.
They came back just before supper and rushed up to their room to fix up
a bit.

"Hello, the door is locked!" cried Tom, trying it.

"And the keyhole is plugged," added Sam, taking a look.

Then the brothers looked at each other.

"I guess William Philander Tubbs did it," said Tom.

CHAPTER IX

WILLIAM PHILANDER TURNS THE TABLES

It was useless to try to open the door. The lock was filled up with a
wad of paper that refused to budge.

"If it's only paper we can burn it out," suggested Sam. "But it may
scorch the door."

"We'll go through by the way of Songbird's room," said Tom.

There was a door connecting the two rooms. It was not supposed to be
used, for one of the beds was against it. But the bed was rolled to
one side by Tom. Songbird and his roommate had already gone below.

"Here's the key," said Sam, bringing it from a nearby nail. "It's a
wonder William Philander didn't plug this keyhole, too."

"Maybe he didn't have time," answered Tom. "Always supposing it really
was Tubbs."

"That's so--iy may have been somebody else."

The connecting door was unlocked and Tom and Sam walked into their own
apartment. Both gave a cry of astonishment.

And not without reason. The room had been "stacked," and every boy who
has ever attended boarding school or college knows what that means. In
the center of the room lay the parts of the two beds in a heap and on
top of those parts were piled a miscellaneous collection of books,
chairs, clothing, the table and bureau, looking glass, an empty water
pitcher, football, baseball bats, shoes, bed clothing, rugs, papers,
pens, pencils, soap, caps, a steamer trunk from the closet, several
framed photographs, some college banners, and a score of other
articles. On the very top of the heap was a fancy sofa pillow Nellie
had given to Tom and to this was pinned a card, on which was written,
in a disguised scrawl:

_Hoping you will enjoy your job!_

"It was William Philander all right enough,", murmured Sam, as he and
his brother inspected the card. "You sent him to one job, and he is
sending us to another," and he heaved a deep sigh.

"Some work, Sammy," returned Tom. "Well, we can't go at it now--it
will take us two hours to straighten things up. We'll do it after
supper."

"Going after Tubbs for this?"

"What's the use? I don't blame him for getting back at us. I guess,
after all, that joke I played on him was rather rough,"