"Blood! blood! I want blood!" he cried as he threw his Latin grammar against the wall with such force that the covers came off.
"What ho! most worthy knight!" replied Tom gently. "In sooth, gentle sir, what hath befallen thee?"
"Heaps!" replied Sid. "Oh, Pitchfork, would I had thee here!" and he wadded up the table cover, and pretended to choke it.
"What now?" asked Tom.
"Oh, he put me through a course of sprouts for further orders this afternoon," explained Sid. "Thought he'd catch me, but I managed to wiggle through. Nearly gave me heart disease, though, for fear I'd have to be out of the game to-morrow. But I managed to save myself, much to the surprise of Pitchfork. Now I want my revenge on him."
"What can you do?"
"I don't know—nothing, I guess. I wish—hold on!" Sid struck a thoughtful attitude, looked fixedly at the floor, then at the ceiling, and finally cried: "Eureka!"
"Has some one been playing hob with your crown?" asked Tom, referring to the exclamation said to have been made by the ancient king, when he discovered, in his bath, a means of finding out if his jeweler had cheated him.
"No, but I've found a way to get even with Pitchfork."
