Then, as Reade darted from the store, Mrs. Prescott added, to her husband:
"I think the back of Tom Reade's head contains more pranks than that of any other boy I ever knew."
"I don't imagine our own son is any too far behind him," replied
Mr. Prescott dryly.
A minute or two passed. Then there sounded under one of the store's rear windows a most realistic crash of glass. With it mingled another sound, not so easy to determine, followed by a loud yell and the noise of running feet. Now, out in the street the cry sounded:
"There he goes! Get him!"
"Throw him down and hold him!" yelled another voice.
"Mercy!" gasped Mrs. Prescott.
"Don't be alarmed, my dear," smiled Mr. Prescott. "It's only the natural aftermath of Tom Reade's newest startler."
Was it?
Dick Prescott, after yawning twice, and before starting to disrobe, had decided that his adjustable screen was not fixed in the window of his bedroom as securely as it should be. In endeavoring to fix it he found it necessary to remove the screen from the window. Hardly had he done so when, gazing down into the darkness, he saw a dimly visible figure flitting over the ground below.