So far Hans had not touched the coffee, but hearing the words he took up his cup and downed a deep draught.  It may be added that he was a German who loved coffee a good deal, and frequently drank several cups at a meal.

For an instant the German youth said nothing.  Then his face turned pale.

“Dat coffee was no goot!” he gasped.

“Why, Hans,” cried several.

“See how pale he is getting,” came from George Granbury.  “Hans, are you going to die?

“Don’t say the coffee is going to poison him,” burst out Tom.  “I was reading about poison getting into the coffee at this hotel last week.  But, of course—­”

“Did da got poison py der coffee in here?” demanded Hans.

“To be sure, put—­”

“How vos dot poisoned coffee taste annahow?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“I think it was a little salty,” came from Fred Garrison.

“Mine cracious me!  Of dot’s so I vos poisoned, sure.  Run for der toctor kvick!”

“Here, eat some jam, Hans.  That will counteract the effect of the poison,” said Tom, and handed over a small dish with jam in it, over which he had just sprinkled the pepper with an exceedingly 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.