“You sure had your nerve along with you, Purdy, just as he said,” he gasped. “Did you think you could do anything with a man like that?”
“I gave him his chance,” was the cool-voiced rejoinder. “You remember the story in the old spelling-book, about the farmer who caught the apple thieves up in his trees and threw clods at them first before he began to throw stones. I was just throwing a little clod or two; but now we’ll go and see if we can’t rustle up a few stones.”
The next place Purdick headed for was the Micrometer office, on the top floor of the Chronicle Building. Luckily, they found Havercamp there, and he was alone in the little editorial den of the college daily.
“Hello, you near-Soffies!” he grinned as they entered. “What are you doing out at this time o’ night?”
“Time o’ night’s time o’ the early evening,” said Purdick. Then: “It’s about Larry Donovan. Of course, you’ve heard the story?”
Havercamp’s grin faded.
“I never was so knocked out in my life. He was here with me up to eleven o’clock that night, and I remember when he left he said he had to go home and work on some test stuff that was still waiting.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“Not a sign of him. He’s chucked the reporting job, along with everything else. Hacked about being dropped from the team, I suppose.”