“They’ve taken a private room,” said Brad, after peering between the swinging doors. “They’ve gone upstairs, partner. I reckon they intend to drown their remorse with plenty of booze. If you should appear before them now, they’d certain think you a spook.”
Dick laughed softly.
“I have a fancy to play the spook,” he said. “Come with me.”
In a near-by restaurant he purchased a few cents’ worth of flour, which was given him in a paper bag. Slipping this into his pocket, he led the way back to Fred’s.
There were a very few patrons in Fred’s as the boys entered. Spofford, a sophomore, was leaning lurchingly on the bar and telling a story. Two or three of Spofford’s chums were with him. The barkeeper was listening and the waiter was opening a barrel in the back room. No one paid any attention to Dick and Brad, who sauntered through and quietly ascended the stairs.
There were two rooms above. Listening, Merriwell soon learned which of these was occupied by the fellows he hoped to frighten. Having located them, he brought forth the bag of flour, which he proceeded to smear over his face until his features were well coated with it.
“Do I look rather ghostly, Brad?” he whispered.
“Your face looks that way,” softly chuckled the Texan, “but there’s nothing very ghostly about the rest of you.”
“Then I’ll show only my face,” decided Dick. “Here’s the panel through which drinks are passed into that room.”
“They shouldn’t see you in too strong a light,” murmured Brad.