"What on earth does one give a girl at Christmas?"
"Tooth-powder, scented soap, ribbons—-oh, hang it! I don't know," floundered Dave hopelessly. "Anyway, I don't have to know. It's your scrape, Dick Prescott!"
"Yours, too, Dave Darrin!"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I saw Belle buying some of that yarny stuff, too."
"Great Scott!" groaned Dave. "Say, what do you suppose they're planning to put up on us for a Christmas job? Some of those big-as-all-outdoors, wobbly, crocheted slippers?"
CHAPTER VIII
HUH? WOOLLY CROCHETED SLIPPERS
The night before Christmas Dick Prescott attended a ball, in his new capacity of reporter.
Being young, also "green" in the ways of newspaper work, he imagined it his duty to remain rather late in order to be sure that he had all the needed data for the brief description that he was to write for "The Blade."