By a quarter of two the last words had been committed, and Dick snatched overcoat and hat, stuffed the manuscript into his pocket, and flew downstairs.
Not ten minutes later the door was flung open, and Brad Buckhart entered hastily.
“Not here!” he exclaimed, with a swift look about the room. “Where in thunder is he? Cut everything this morning, without a word of explanation! Didn’t even show up to dinner! It sure beats everything, the bad ways he’s getting into!”
He plumped down in the chair beside the table, his brows drawn down into a scowl. A moment later he slid his hand down the arm of the chair, and drew forth a crumpled wad of yellow paper.
“Humph!” he grunted. “What’s this?”
Smoothing it out, he saw that it was a telegram, and, scarcely realizing what he was doing, his eyes took in the first line. After that nothing could have prevented his reading it to the very end, so interested was he.
“Suffering catamounts!” he exclaimed. “If that don’t beat all! Arrested! Wants Dick to take the part! Great tarantulas! That’s what the old galoot’s been up to all morning—learning the stuff. It’s sure it!”
For a moment he sat there in thoughtful silence. Then a slow smile broke out all over his face, and the next moment he threw back his head, and laughed till the tears came into his eyes.
“By the great horn spoon!” he cried. “That’s the best thing I ever heard. Think of old Dick going on the stage, and half of Yale College looking on, and not knowing it’s him. Gee! If we don’t have a circus to-night with Richard I’ll eat my hat!”
He broke off, and glanced again at the telegram.