“I am certain I smell something worse than tobacco,” fussed the voice of Prof. Babbitt.
“Dear dear!” exclaimed the first speaker. “It is awful! I shall not be able to remain in this room.”
“It’s the punch they smell,” whispered one of the students under the bed, holding his lips close to the ear of a companion.
“It seems to be like some deadly gas,” hoarsely said the voice of the second speaker. “Wait a minute, and I will find the lamp.”
“What are you going to do, professor?” asked the third individual. “Surely you are not going to——”
“Light the lamp—yes, sir.”
“But it is very dangerous. This room does seem filled with gas. It might produce combustion if you struck a match here.”
“Nonsense, my dear Babbitt!” exclaimed the one recognized by his voice as Prof. Such. “Do light a lamp. I wish to see if any of those noisy rascals are present. We could hear them plainly enough from the street, although it is strangely quiet in the house now.”
Prof. Such generally carried a cane with a brad in the end of it. It was for the purpose of aiding his somewhat unsteady feet at all times of the year. The boys under the bed could hear that cane jabbing about on the floor in a nervous manner.
Somebody produced a match and attempted to light it, but broke it in two. Another was produced and struck. Then the three professors looked about for the lamp, but could find none.