“I didn’t know it was so late!” exclaimed Frank, as he glanced at his watch, and then he fairly flew into his clothing, and so did Mark.
They had just slipped on their shoes when there came a knock on the stateroom door and they admitted Sam.
“See here, who put this stuff in my shoes—” began Sam, when he noticed Mark kicking his foot on a locker. Then Frank did the same. A moment later they were sitting down trying to pull off their shoes, which refused to budge.
“By cracky! I can’t do a thing with mine!” puffed Mark. “Whatever has gotten into them?”
“It’s pitch, that’s what it is,” growled Sam. “Here is some on the tongue of my shoe. I can’t budge my feet.”
“And the stuff smarts like mischief,” came from Frank. “Say, do you know what I think?” he went on.
“It’s a joke of Hockley’s,” came from both of the others.
“Exactly.”
“If it is, we’ll pay him back with interest,” said Mark, grimly.
The pitch was of the extra sticky kind and clung to them like fish glue. They stamped and kicked, pulled and hauled, but all to no purpose.