“Good for you Washtubs!” came from a boy in the rear of the crowd.

“I’d stick to that resolution, by all means, Buttertubs,” came from the opposite side of the crowd.

And then one older youth, who was given to writing songs, began to sing softly: 

    “Rub-a-dub-dub! 
    One man in a tub,
      And who do you think it is,
    It’s William Philander,
    Who’s got up his dander,
      And isn’t he mad!  Gee whizz!”

The doggerel, gotten up on the spur of the moment, struck the fancy of fully a score of boys, big and little, and in an instant all were singing it over and over again, at the top of their lungs, and at this those who did not sing began to laugh uproariously.

“I say, what’s it all about?” demanded Tom, as he slid from the turning-bar.

“Songbird Powell has composed a comic opera in Tubby’s honor,” answered Larry Colby, one of the Rover boys’ chums.  “I guess he’s going to have it put on the stage after the holidays, with Tubby as leading man.”

“See here, I won’t have this!” roared the rich youth, waving his hand wildly first at one boy and then another.  “I don’t want you to make up any songs about me.”

“Songbird won’t charge you anything,” put in Fred Garrison, another of the students.  “He’s a true poet, and writes for nothing.  You ought to feel highly honored.”

“Make a speech of thanks, that’s a good fellow,” put in George Granbury, another student.

“It’s an outrage!” shouted Tubbs, his face growing redder each instant.  “I won’t stand it.”

“All right, we won’t charge you for sitting on it,” came from the back of the crowd.

“My right name is——­”

“Barrel, but they call me Tubbs for short,” finished another student.  “Hurrah, Tubby is discovered at last.”

“Don’t blush, Washtub! you don’t look half as pretty as when you’re pale.”

“If you feel warm, Buttertub, go out and sit on the thin ice.  It will soon cool you off,” came from Fred Garrison.

“I’ll cool you off, Garry!” burst out the rich youth, and made a wild dash at his tormentor.  But somebody put out a foot and the tormented boy stumbled headlong, at which the crowd set up another shout, and then sang louder than ever,

    “Rub-a-dub-dub! 
    One man in a tub!”

“I say, who tripped me up!” gasped Tubbs, as soon as he could scramble up.  “Tell me who did it, and I’ll soon settle with him.”

“Who rolled over the buttertub?” asked Tom solemnly.  “One peanut reward for the first correct answer to this absorbing puzzle.  Please don’t all raise your hands at once.”

“I believe you did it, Tom Rover!” bellowed the rich youth.

“I?  Never, Tubby, my dear boy.  I never rolled over a buttertub in my life.  You’ve got the wrong number.  Kindly ring the bell next door.”

“Then it was Sam, and I’ll fix him for it, see if I don’t!”