Frank remembered the second warning. Of the party Creighton was the only fellow he did not know very well, and, if there was an enemy among them, Creighton must be the man.
Frank resolved to show no suspicion.
"What's up?" he asked.
"To-night," cried Griswold, dramatically, "the curtain will go up on one of the greatest tragedies ever enacted on any stage—nit!"
"Hush!" whispered Creighton, mysteriously. "Whisper it softly. 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' is in town, with
two Little Evas, two Marks, three real Siberian bloodhounds, bred in New Jersey, and a jackass."
"The jackass is the manager of the company," grinned Griswold.
"I presume you have heard of that immortal play, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' Mr. Merriwell?" questioned Creighton.
"Methinks I have," assured Frank.
"'Methinks' is good," nodded Creighton. "It has a fat sound."