"It's a jolly shame," grumbled the senator's son. "To make us stay in this stuffy classroom on such a fine evening as this."
"I am glad I finished with my lessons," was Dave's comment. "But I am sorry for you two. But, as there is no help for it, we might as well get to work. The sooner begun, the sooner done, you know." And he began to write away vigorously on one of the pads the teacher had pointed out to them.
"I wish old Haskers had to write it himself," growled Roger, as he, too, went at the task. "Oh, but isn't he the mean one! I don't see why the doctor keeps him."
"He's smart, that's why," answered Phil. "I wish we could get square for this. I'm sure Doctor Clay would have excused us, had he known the facts. I've a good mind to go to him about it."
"Don't you do it, Phil," cried Dave. "It's not worth it. Get to work—and we'll think about squaring up afterwards."
In a minute more all three of the boys were writing as rapidly as their fingers could travel over the paper. Roger was the best penman of the three and finished several minutes before the others. He began to walk up and down the room, whistling softly to himself.
"Yes, I go in for squaring up with old Haskers," he said, rather loudly. "He's about as mean——" And then he stopped short, as the door swung open and the second assistant appeared.
"Huh!" he snorted. "Were you alluding to me, Master Morr?" he demanded.
Roger stammered, and his face turned red.
"Her—here are the words," he stammered.