“That’s right, Hans, you give them a wide berth,” said Tom, and walked away.

Later on Tom persuaded Dick to ask Hans if he would not walk down to Cedarville for him, to buy him a baseball.  Eager to be accommodating, the German youth received the necessary permission to leave the academy acres and hurried off at the full speed of his sturdy legs.

“Now for some fun!” cried Tom, and ran off for the Indian suit and the face paints.  These he took down to the bam and set to work to transform himself into a wild-looking red man.

“You’re a lively one!” grinned Peleg Snuggers, who stood watching him.  “We never had such a lad as you before Master Thomas.”

“Thanks, Peleg, and perhaps you’ll never have one like me again —­ and then you’ll be dreadfully sorry.”

“Or glad,” murmured Peleg.

“Mum’s the word, old man.”

“Oh, I never say nuthin, Master Thomas; you know that,” returned the man-of-all-work.

A number of the other pupils had been let into the secret, and, led by Dick, they ran off to the woods lining the Cedarville road.  Tom came after them, skulking along that nobody driving by might catch sight of him.

Not quite an hour later Hans Mueller was heard coming back.  The German boy was humming to himself and at the same time throwing up the new ball he had purchased for Dick.

“Burra!  Burra!” thundered out Tom, as he leaped from behind a big tree.  “Dutcha boy heap big scalp-me take um!  Burra!” And he danced up to Hans, flourishing a big tin knife as he did so.  The masquerade was a perfect one, and he looked like an Indian who had just stepped forth from some Wild West show.

“Ach du!” screamed Hans, as he stopped short and grew white.  “It’s dem Indians come to take mine hair!  Oh, please, Mister Indian, ton’t vos touch me!”

“Dutcha boy heap nice hair,” continued Tom, drawing nearer.  “Maka nice door-mat for Big Wolf.  Burra!”

“No, no; ton’t vos touch mine hair-it vos all der hair I vos got!” howled Hans.  “Please, Mister Indian mans, let me go!” And then he started to back away.

“White bay stop or Big Wolf shoot!” bellowed Tom, drawing forth a rusty pistol he had picked up in the barn.  This rusty pistol had done lots of duty at fun-making before.

“No, no; ton’t shoot!” screamed Hans.  Then he fell on his knees in despair.

Tom could scarcely keep from laughing at the sight, and a snicker or two could be heard coming from where Frank, Dick, and the others were concealed behind the bushes.  But the German youth was too terrorized to notice anything but that awful red man before him, with his hideous war-paint of blue and yellow.

“Dutcha boy dance for Big Wolf,” went on Tom.  “Dance!  Dance or Big Wolf shoot!” And the fun-loving Rover set the pace in a mad, caper that would have done credit to a Zulu.

“I can’t vos dance!” faltered Hans, and then, thinking he might appease the wrath of his unexpected enemy he began to caper about in a clumsy fashion which was comical in the extreme.