"Hoopla! keep it up!" roared Tom. "Dutcha boy take the cake for
flingin' hees boots. Faster, faster, or Big Wolf shoot, bang!"
"No, no; I vos dance so hard as I can!" panted Hans, and renewed
his exertions until Tom could keep in no longer, and set up such a
laugh as had not been heard around the Hall for many a day. It is
needless to add that the other boys joined in, still, however,
keeping out of sight.
"You're a corker, Hans!" cried Tom in his natural voice. "You
ought to join the buck-and-wing dancers in a minstrel company."
"Vot -- vot -- ?" began the German boy in bewilderment. "Ain't
you no Indian?"
"To be sure I am; I'm Big Wolf, the Head Dancing Master of the
Tuscaroras, Hans, dear boy. Don't you think I'm a stunner."
"You vos Tom Rofer, made up," growled Hans in sudden and deep
disgust. "Vot for you vos blay me such a drick as dis, hey?"
"Just to wake you up, Hans."
"I ton't vos been asleep, not me!"
"I mean to stir up your ideas -- put something new into your
head."
"Mine head vos all right, Tom."
"To be sure it is."
"Den vot you say you vos put somedings new py him, hey?"
"I mean to make you sharper-put you on your mettle."
"I ton't understand," stammered the German youth hopelessly.
"That's so, and you won't in a thousand years, Hans. But you are
the right sort, any way."
"I dink I blay me Indian mineselluf some tay," mused Hans. "Dot
vos lots of fun to make me tance, vosn't it? Vere you got dot
bistol?"
"Down in the barn.
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