A moment later Bob and Ned, with Jerry in the background, stood before the door indicated to them by the bell boy.
“Come in!” called a voice as Ned knocked, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized his father’s tones, their usual vigor indicating that the injuries could not be very serious.
The boys entered to behold Mr. Slade propped up in an easy chair, one leg stretched out in front of him on a pile of cushions placed in another chair, while wound around his head were white bandages.
Mr. Baker sat in another chair, but his legs seemed intact. One arm was in a sling, however, and his face was adorned, or unadorned, if you please, with strips of adhesive plaster.
“Oh, Dad! For the love of football! what have you been doing?” asked Ned, as he advanced toward Mr. Slade with outstretched hand.
“Easy, Son, easy!” cautioned his father. “That leg’s badly bruised. Don’t touch it or inflict any new injury, for I’ll almost have it amputated before I let that doctor touch it again. But sit down, boys, and we’ll talk business.”
“How are you, Dad?” asked Bob.
“All right, Son. Only I’ll have to give you my left hand. My right is cut and scratched, but, fortunately, no bones broken. So you got the professor’s message all right, I see.”
“Yes, we got it—after a fashion,” said Jerry, grimly. “He began with a lizard, worked up to the broken wheel, told about the roll down hill, and finally admitted that you were hurt.”
“He told you by easy stages then,” remarked Mr. Slade. “We asked him not to alarm you.”