We looked for our clothes—they were not there, nor anything of all the varied contents of our pockets.
A door stood somewhat ajar; it opened into a most attractive bathroom, copiously provided with towels, soap, mirrors, and all such convenient comforts, with indeed our toothbrushes and combs, our notebooks, and thank goodness, our watches—but no clothes.
Then we made a search of the big room again and found a large airy closet, holding plenty of clothing, but not ours.
“A council of war!” demanded Terry. “Come on back to bed—the bed’s all right anyhow. Now then, my scientific friend, let us consider our case dispassionately.”
He meant me, but Jeff seemed most impressed.
“They haven’t hurt us in the least!” he said. “They could have killed us—or—or anything—and I never felt better in my life.”
“That argues that they are all women,” I suggested, “and highly civilized. You know you hit one in the last scrimmage—I heard her sing out—and we kicked awfully.”
Terry was grinning at us. “So you realize what these ladies have done to us?” he pleasantly inquired. “They have taken away all our possessions, all our clothes—every stitch. We have been stripped and washed and put to bed like so many yearling babies—by these highly civilized women.”
Jeff actually blushed. He had a poetic imagination. Terry had imagination enough, of a different kind. So had I, also different. I always flattered myself I had the scientific imagination, which, incidentally, I considered the highest sort. One has a right to a certain amount of egotism if founded on fact—and kept to one’s self—I think.
“No use kicking, boys,” I said. “They’ve got us, and apparently they’re perfectly harmless. It remains for us to cook up some plan of escape like any other bottled heroes. Meanwhile we’ve got to put on these clothes—Hobson’s choice.”