Professor Zepplin grabbed him by the collar, jerking Stacy Brown from the fallen Pony Rider Boy.

Ned scrambled to his feet, and, with a sheepish grin on his face, proceeded to brush the dust from his clothes.

“Downed you, did he?” questioned Tad.

“It wasn’t fair.  I didn’t know he was going to try.”

“Neither did the Russians when the Japs sailed into them at Port Arthur,” laughed Walter.  “And they got what was coming to them.”

“So did I. Chunky, I deserve more than you gave me.  If you want to, beat me up some more.”

“Now, isn’t that sweet of him?” chortled Stacy.  “I fell off my pony, then I fell on you, and we’ll call it quits, eh, Ned?”

Ned put out a hand, which Stacy grasped with mock enthusiasm.

“We sure will.”

“I’d like to know what this is all about?” questioned Walter.  “Something’s been going on.”

“I made his pony throw him over,” admitted Ned.

Stacy nodded with emphasis.

“He found it out and jumped on me.”

“I’ll turn you both over my knee if you try to repeat these performances,” warned the Professor.

Linking arms, Stacy and Ned started for the breakfast table, humming,

“For he’s a jolly good fellow,”

and a moment later all four of the lads were standing about the breakfast table, singing the chorus at the top of their voices.

CHAPTER VIII

 Asleep on the sleepy grass

The slanting rays of the sun got into the eyes of the Pony Rider Boys.  Four arms were thrown over as many pairs of eyes to shut out the blinding light.

“Ho-ho-hum!” yawned Chunky.

Cocking an impish eye at his companions, he observed that each had fallen into a deep sleep again.

The fat boy cautiously gathered up a handful of dry sand and hurled it into the air.  A shower of it sprinkled over them, into their eyes and half-opened mouths.

Three pairs of eyes were opened, then closed again.

Encouraged by his success, Stacy chuckled softly to himself, then dumped another handful of sand over his companions.

But he was not prepared for what followed.

Three muscular boys hurled themselves upon him.  Instantly the peaceful scene was changed into a pandemonium of yells.  Down came the tent poles, the canvas rising and falling as if imbued with sudden life.

Professor Zepplin, startled by the racket, roused himself and sprang from his own tent.  Observing the erratic actions of the tent in which the boys had been sleeping, he instantly concluded that something serious had happened.

“Boys! boys!” he cried, running to the spot, frantically hauling away the canvas.  “What has happened?  What has happened?”

They were too busy to answer him.  When finally he had uncovered what lay below, he found his charges literally tied up in a knot, rolling and tumbling, with Stacy Brown lying flat on his back, each of his three companions vigorously rubbing handfuls of sand over his face, down his neck and in the hair of his head.