“By Jove! That was no end of a lark!” exclaimed Roundy Lawson. “I wish I could travel around like that, and eat when I pleased.” “That was _rich_!” declared Whistle-Breeches Anderson. “Why didn’t you ever tell us that, Cap?” he demanded. “I never thought you fellows would care about hearing it. But now, boys, do you blame us for sticking up for Mr. Clatter?” “Not a bit of it!” came in an emphatic chorus. “You’re all right, professor!” “Pass out some of that Rapid Resolute Resolvent!” “I want some of that Spotless Soap!” “Me for the Pain Killer. I ate too much dinner!” “A little silver polish will about suit me!” The students were clamoring for the wares, now, and the vendor, who had shaken hands with our heroes, and whispered to them how grateful he was, began passing out his goods. Whether the students really wanted it, or only bought out of sympathy, or because of a class spirit, mattered little as long as he sold the articles, and the professor did a thriving trade. “Come on,” disgustedly called the rich lad to the cronies in his own particular set, “I might have known better than to come to Westfield. I was warned that a number of common persons attended it, and now I’m sure of it. I shall write father and have him withdraw me at once.” “Why don’t you withdraw yourself, and save daddy the trouble?” asked Whistle-Breeches as the rich lad passed on amid his chums, with a sneer on his face. All danger to the professor’s wagon was now over, and he at once made friends among the students, for he was a man who had traveled much, and his ways, while suiting his particular business, were genial and kindly when once you knew him, though at first they might seem bombastic and uncultured. He knew how to gain the attention of an audience. “Well, it’s a real pleasure to see you boys again,” went on the professor when the desire of the crowd for his wares had been satisfied, and when most of the students had strolled away. “And so you are attending school here? Well, what has happened since last we met?” “Lots,” declared Cap, and he proceeded to tell the main facts. “Are you still traveling about in the same way?” asked Pete. “Yes, but I don’t do any more palmistry. It’s too risky. But what’s the matter with you, Bill? You don’t seem well.” “Got hit with a ball,” explained the lad, touching the place where there was still a lump on his head. “Too bad, but you’ll soon be over it. Pactolus once kicked me, and it was a week before the swelling went down.” “The swelling is the least part of it,” spoke Bill gloomily, and Pete, who had not yet heard of the result of the visit to the oculist, looked in alarm at his brother’s tone. “What’s the trouble?” inquired Mr. Clatter. “Perhaps some of my pain killer will help you. It’s good stuff in spite of the way I sell it. I used to know something of medicine. Let me wrap you up a bottle for old times’ sake.”