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Updated: May 6, 2025
Being a young man, he took himself full seriously, and it was a tremendous blow to his sense of dignity when the youthful Jayhawkers at the outset dubbed him "Dean Funnybone" a name he was never to lose.
While Shaggy and his companions stood huddled in a group at one side, the Army of Oogaboo was approaching along the pathway, the tramp of their feet being now and then accompanied by a dismal groan as one of the officers stepped on a sharp stone or knocked his funnybone against his neighbor's sword-handle.
"His father may have met the same fate that my father did." "Why don't you take the guardianship yourself, Burleigh? The boy is yours in love and blood. He ought to be in law." Victor Burleigh stood up to his full height, a magnificent product of Nature's handiwork. But the mind and soul "Dean Funnybone" had helped to shape. "I will be honest with you, Dr.
Now, wouldn't you? I'd ask Funnybone, but he's no shafer 'n I am. No shafer! You'll be good to Dennie, you said so. Shay it again!" Bond was standing now bending threateningly toward Burgess, who had also risen. "I'll do all that a gentleman ought to do." He had only one thought to pacify the drunken man and get away. And the old man understood. "Shwear it, I tell you!
Will you come, Funnybone?" The trustee waited for an answer. While he waited, the soul of the young dean found itself. "Funnybone!" Lloyd repeated. "I guess that's just what I need a funny bone in my anatomy to help me to see the humor of this thing. Go with you and give up my college? Build up the prosperity of a commonwealth by starving its mind!
"The scoundrel is gone, and it would make a nine days' hooray, and nothing would come of it. He was darned slick to take the time when Funnybone was away." "Why?" Vic asked. But Bond would not tell why. And Vic never dreamed how much cause Bond Saxon had to dread the day when Tom Gresh should be brought into court, and his own great crime committed in his drunken hours would demand retribution.
"Why," says he, "I am Mr. Ellins." "G'wan!" says I. "You ain't half of him." That reaches his funnybone, too. "You're perfectly right, young man," says he; "but I happen to be his son. Now are you satisfied?" "Nope," says I. "That bluff don't go either. If you was Mr. Robert I'd have been struck by lightnin' long 'fore this. You've got one more guess."
What I want to know is why in blue belted blazes you did it!" "Well," says I, "first off I guess it just naturally slipped out; then, when I saw what a hit I was makin' with Martha why, I expect I sort of enjoyed givin' her the details." Somehow, that seems to graze his funnybone, and he has a struggle to keep a grin out of his mouth corners. "Humph!" says he. "I I'd like to have seen her then.
His black hair was as long and heavy as ever. His black eyes had lost nothing of their keenness. His smile was just the same old, genial outbreak of good will, as he heard the wildly enthusiastic refrain: Rah for Funnybone! Rah for Funnybone! Rah for Funnybone! Rah! It was twilight when the train pulled up to the station.
"First, Elinor Wream, what Dean Funnybone calls 'Norrie, is heading the bunch that's going to shower us with roses tomorrow, if we win. And you know blamed well we'll win. They came in from Kansas City on the limited, just now, the roses did. The shower's predicted for tomorrow P. M." A sudden glow lighted Vic's stern face, and there was no savage gleam in his eyes now.
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