“Huh!”

“I’ve got an idea, Ned.”

“For goodness’ sake, keep it to yourself, then.  When you have an idea it spells trouble for everybody else around you.”

“Bet you I can.”

“Can what?” snorted Ned.

“Bet you I can jump the dinner table and you can’t.”

“Bet you can’t.”

“Bet I can, and without even knocking a fly off the milk pitcher.”

“Go on, you!  You try it first, and, if you don’t make it, you lose.  I don’t have to try it if I don’t want to,” agreed Ned, with rare prudence.

Chunky was fairly hugging himself with glee, but he took good care that Ned Rector did not observe his satisfaction.

“If you don’t you’re a tenderfoot,” taunted Stacy.

“I’ll show you who’s the tenderfoot.  You go ahead and bolt the dinner, table and all, if you dare.  Now, then!”

Stacy gathered up his reins.  There was mischief in his eyes, which were fixed on the table, neatly set for the evening meal.

“You start right after me.  They’ll be surprised to see a procession of ponies going over the table, won’t they?”

“Somebody’ll be surprised.  May not be the Professor and Santa Claus, though,” growled Ned.

Stacy had his own ideas on this question, but he did not confide them to his companion.

The fat boy clucked to his pony, and the little animal started off.  As they moved along, Stacy used the persuasive spurs resulting in a sudden burst of speed.

“Come on!” he shouted.

He heard Ned’s pony pursuing him.

“Hi-yi-yi-y-e-o-w!” howled the shrill voice of the fat boy.

Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle were sitting at opposite ends of the table, with elbows leaning on it, engaged in earnest conversation.  There had been so much yelling out on the plain ever since the boys left camp that the older men gave no heed to this new shout—­ did not even turn their eyes in the direction whence Stacy Brown and his pony were sweeping down on them at break-neck speed.

Suddenly the two men started back with a sudden exclamation, as a shadow fell athwart the table and a dark form hurled itself through the air, while a shrill, “w-h-o-o-p-e-e!” sounded right over their heads.

The fat boy cleared the table without so much as disturbing the fly to which he had referred when making the arrangement.

Kris Kringle’s face wore an expansive grin as he discovered the cause of the interruption.  But, Professor Zepplin’s face reflected no such emotion.  He was angry.  He started to rise, when a second shadow fell across the table.

Ned Rector, not to be outdone by his fat little friend, pursed his lips tightly, driving his broncho at the dinner table and pressing in the spurs so hard, that the pony grunted with anger.

Up went the broncho in a graceful curving leap.

But the pony or its rider had not calculated the distance properly.  Both rear hoofs went through the table, whisking it off the ground from before the astonished eyes of Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle.