“Well, it’s all yours now,” Doyle shrugged. “Such impatience! Dear! Dear!”
Flash glanced at the tub. It was rimmed with dirt. Every bath towel had been used.
“Say, you lug—” he began.
An outside door slammed. The culprit had gone.
Ringing for more towels, Flash cleaned the tub and hastened through his own bath.
“I’ll get even with him tomorrow,” he thought. “We’ll see how he likes it when the joke is on him.”
It was after seven o’clock when Flash finally left the hotel in search of a restaurant. He sauntered along, pausing to read menus printed on the plate glass windows. Suddenly he felt a hand touch his shoulder.
Flash whirled around. For a moment he did not recognize the smiling young man who stood there. Then he gave a pleased cry:
“Bailey Brooks! What are you doing out this way?”
“Oh, prowling around,” the parachute jumper replied. “Had your dinner?”