"That's the way. Now then, papa's joy and mamma's pet, show us how it
is that you do the trick."

Stretched upon the floor, Will Phelps went through his struggle with an
imaginary foe. He twisted and writhed and struggled, shrieks of laughter
greeting his efforts from the assembled sophomores, and even Hawley
joined in, so ridiculous was the appearance which Will presented.

"That's very good, very good indeed!" remarked Mott when several minutes
had elapsed. "You'd better get up now and take a seat beside your
friend."

Will quickly did as he was bidden, laughing slightly as he glanced at
Hawley, whose imperturbable good nature was not in anywise ruffled.

"Hawley, you're a great football player, I understand," said Mott.

"I'm a big player, can't say that I'm great. Some fellows might think
so, but it depends on whether they've seen much or know much, I fancy."

"That's right. You're as modest as Mary's little lamb. I hear you're a
great sprinter," he added, turning abruptly to Will Phelps.

"Oh, I can run a little. If you'll give me the chance now I'll show you
how I can leave the sophs behind," said Will with a laugh, for he was
now feeling somewhat the effects of Hawley's manner of meeting his
tormentors, and as he glanced down at Peter John it required no deep
insight to perceive which was the better way.