ngly liberal
hand.

Anxious to do anything that would stop him from being poisoned, the
German boy clutched the dish and took a large spoonful of the jam. But
as he gulped it, he gave a gasp, and the tears started down his cheeks.

"_Du meine zeit!_" he bawled. "I vos purnt up alife by mine mouth
alretty! Dake it avay kvick!" And jumping up from the table he began to
dance around madly.

"It's a serious case," said Tom. "If he's burning up we had better call
out the fire department."

This remark made Hans grow suddenly suspicious. He caught up Tom's cup
of coffee and tasted it.

"I know you, Tom Rofer," he said. "Dot vos more dricks of yours, ain't
it?" He held the cup of coffee on high. "How you like dot, hey!" And
splash! down came the coffee on Tom's head, and trickled down his back.

"Hi, you! let up!" roared Tom, and knocked the half-empty cup to one
side. "Let up, I say, or I'll have the landlord put you out."

"I told you to take care, Tom," came from Sam, when the other boys had
restored quietness. "When Hans gets his dander up he is dangerous."

"Dot is drue," came from Hans. "I vonts no more of them chokes
alretty." And then, as the waiter came hurrying up, he forced Tom to
order him another cup of coffee, and took good care to keep it out of
the fun-loving youth's reach. Poor Tom sopped away the spilt coffee as
best he could, but it must be admitted that for the balance of that day
his backbone felt none too comfortable. Yet he bore no grudge towards
Hans, for he knew that he had deserved the punishment meted out to him.

Down at the dock the boys found the _Golden Star_, a trim little
side-wheeler, ready to take them up the lake. There were about half a
hundred passengers, bound for various landings, and among them six
Putnam Hall scholars, including our old-time acquaintances, Jack
Powell, generally called Songbird Powell, because of his habit of
composing poems and songs, and that aristocratic young gentleman who
rejoiced in the name of William Philander Tubbs.

"The family is surely getting together," remarked Dick, after another
handshaking had been indulged in. "Songbird, do you warble as much as
ever?"

"You can wager a sweet potato he does," said George Granbury. "Nothing
short of a cyclone will ever stop Songbird's warbling, eh, Songbird?"

For reply the youth addressed turned a pair of dreamy eyes on the
speaker, and then said slowly:

"With hopeful hearts
And brightest faces