The next thing of note that happened in the student world jarred the whole town. There might have been a much bigger jar, however.
Dave Darrin often worked, Saturday nights, in the express office.
One night in early December he was employed there as usual. At about nine o'clock Dick Prescott and Tom Reade dropped in.
"Pretty near through, old fellow?" Dick asked.
"I will be when the 8:50 gets in and the goods are checked up," replied Dave. "The train is a few minutes late tonight."
There being no one else at the office, except the night manager and two clerks, Dick and Reade felt that they would not be in the way if they waited for Dave.
Twenty minutes later the wagon drove up with the packages and cases that had arrived on the 8:50 train.
"You two can give a hand, if you like," invited Dave, as the packages were being passed up to the counter, checked and taken care of.
Prescott and Reade pitched in, working with a will.
"Here, don't shoot this box through as fast as you've done the others," counseled Dick, as he picked up a small box, some eighteen inches long and about a foot square at the end. "The label says, 'Extra fragile. Value two hundred and fifty dollars.'"