Bingham wiped his nose with a blood-stained handkerchief.
“Where is Carker?” he asked.
“Here,” answered a doleful voice, and Greg appeared. His necktie and collar had been ripped off, his shirt was torn open at the neck, his face was scratched, his hat was gone, and he was dripping wet.
“Carker,” said Ready, with a rueful smile, “I believe that earthquake must have bunted into us.”
“Look here,” said Greg fiercely; “what did you let that blinkety-blanked, long-haired doggerel-writer escape for?”
“Who did it?”
“You must. He was here. You locked him in, and you said he couldn’t get away.”
“Well, I thought so,” confessed Jack meekly. “That dungeon cell has held many a freshmen before this, and held them fast and safe.”
“This one got away, and he got me by the collar right here—see! That’s about all I remember. He spun me round in the air as if I was a two-pound Indian club. It makes me dizzy to think of it.”