“Hold on a mum-mum-mum-minute, Mr. Blackington,” stuttered the tall lad. “I wish to sus-sus-see you on important bub-business.”
“What’s that?” asked Uriah Blackington, the former manager of the Rockford team. “Why, hello, Jolliby! You look excited. Losing that game to-day at Seaslope must have disturbed you somewhat.”
“You’re sus-sus-sus-still president of the Trolley League, aren’t you?” asked Chip.
“I believe I am,” nodded the Rockford man. “I wanted to resign, but they kept me in it.”
“Have you gug-gug-got about twenty minutes to sus-sus-spare?” inquired Chip.
Blackington glanced at his handsome watch.
“Yes, forty minutes if it’s anything interesting,” he nodded. “What do you want?”
“Just cuc-cuc-come upstairs in a hurry,” urged Chip. “There’s something dud-dud-doing—something you ought to know about.”
“What is it?”
“No tut-tut-time to explain now. Pup-pup-please come.”