"Look here, how many times have I told you not to call me Tubby!" burst
out the rich youth. "I don't like it at all."

"Then what shall we call you?" asked Sam innocently. "Tubblets?"

"No, I don't want you to call me Tubblets either. My name is
Tubbs--William Philander Tubbs."

"Gosh! Am I to say all that whenever I want to address you?" demanded
Sam, with a pretended gasp for breath.

"I don't see why you shouldn't. It's my name."

"But Tubby--I mean Tubblets--no, Willander Philliam Tubbs--the name is
altogether too long. Why, supposin' you were standing on a railroad
track looking east, and an express train was coming from the west at the
rate of seventy-five miles an hour, and it got to within a hundred yards
of you when I discovered your truly horrible peril, and I should start
to warn you of the aforesaid truly horrible peril, take my word for it,
before I could utter such an elongated personal handle as that, you'd be
struck and distributed along that track for a distance of a mile and a
quarter. No, Tubby, my conscience wouldn't allow it--really it
wouldn't." And Sam shook his head seriously.

"See here, what are you giving me?" roared Tubbs wrathfully. "Don't you
worry about my standing on a railroad track and asking you to call me
off." And then he added, with a red face, as a laugh went up from half a
dozen students standing near: "William Philander Tubbs is my name, and I
shan't answer to any other after this."