“Well,” grinned Mike, “if this crowd hasn’t got brains enough to devise a scheme, it’s a mighty poor bunch. Let’s put our heads together and do a little plotting.”
CHAPTER XXII.
A CERTAIN VISITOR.
Dick gave up trying to grind. It was mid-afternoon and once more his friends who roomed in the house had wandered in upon him and were chattering away regardless of his desire to study.
They had been speaking of disguises and practical jokes. Bigelow was telling them what a fine Irishman Dick became when he wished to represent one and had the necessary make-up.
“Didn’t he fool the cops that night you took in the cock fight, Tucker?” demanded Big. “Didn’t he fool you, too? You know he did. Both you and Jones were scared out of your senses when you got back here. Said you’d been recognized and your names called by a policeman. Felt sure that meant the end of Yale for both of you. Oh, but you were scared! Tommy was white round the gills, and all Blessed could do was groan and quote fake scripture.”
“Verily I was exceedingly distressed,” acknowledged Jones.
“Oh, I confess I was scared blue,” said Tucker. “But out in that old barn with only two or three lanterns to illuminate the place it was easy enough for anybody to fool us. I’m not saying Dick isn’t good at making up and playing a part, but he never could deceive a native of old Erin if he tried to represent an Irishman.”
“Bet he could, bet he could!” spluttered Bouncer. “Couldn’t you, Dick?”
“I don’t know,” confessed Dick, “but I have an idea that I might succeed.”
“I’m willing to bet ten you can’t fool any real Irishman,” cried Tucker.