“You needn't have worried, Hilda,” said Prudence. “You know big men never run after you.”
It was a notorious fact that most of Hilda's admirers were about half her size.
“Oh, yes. That holds good in society, but I don't know what might obtain in criminal circles.”
“Hilda, did your villain carry a cane and wear glasses?”
“I was too frightened to notice, but I believe he flourished a stout stick of some sort, and I do remember a wicked gleam about his eyes—might have been spectacles.”
The girls burst out laughing.
“Why, it's Professor Thing-a-my-Bob, or Dry-as-Dust, or somebody or other, from Washington. He's her fiancé.”
“Well, I don't care if he is,” persisted Hilda. “He's a wicked-looking villain.”
“Oh!” screamed the girls, and then Prudence added, with mock solemnity:
“Any one who could talk slightingly of a genuine college professor would speak disrespectfully of the equator or be sassy to the dictionary.”