TALK OF A TOUR.
There was a rap on the door, which immediately popped open, and in bobbed a head, thatched with carroty hair, upon which was perched a crumpled cap. A freckled, jolly face was wrinkled into a cheerful grin, and a voice that was made up of bubbles and hollows cried:
"Hello, chaps! I just looked in to see if you were doing well, as the cook said to the lobster, when she lifted the sauce-pan lid."
"Come in, Stubbs," invited Frank, promptly—"come in and make yourself as big a nuisance as possible."
"No need to tell me to do that," piped the lad at the door, as he bounced into the room. "I always make myself a nuisance wherever I am. It is my policy."
He was a little short-legged fellow, with a roly-poly body and twinkling eyes. Good nature bubbled out all over him. At a glance you could see he was the
sort of chap who would try to be merry under almost any circumstances.
This was Bink Stubbs, a lad with whom Frank and Harry had recently become acquainted. Frank had picked him up because of his merry ways and quaint sayings of the wise and humorous order.
"Have you fellers got any smokers?" asked Bink, as he deposited himself on a chair.
"No, we haven't got any smokers," answered Harry. "And the last time you were here, Bruce Browning said you swiped a whole package of cigarettes from him."