“Now about the paint,” went on the tempter, as he again listened at the door. “We’ll have to be careful where we get it, as McNibb is a regular detective for following a clue. It ought to be bought out of town.”
“Hold on, I have it!” cried Bill, after a moment’s thought. “Professor Clatter.”
“Professor Clatter?” inquired Chapin. “You mean that medicine man with his queer wagon?”
“Exactly,” went on the pitcher. “I saw him in town the other day, and he said he was coming back to play a return engagement near here. He’s got some new kind of stomach dope or something like that. Besides, he has some patent face powder that he says he got at a bargain, and he’s going to try and work it off on the ladies in the crowd. It’s a beautiful pink, and it’s harmless. I was looking at a box of it, and it got on my hands. Say, for a few minutes I had the nicest baby complexion you’d want to see. But it all washed off as easily as soap.”
“Well, what’s the answer?” asked Chapin, as Bill paused.
“Why we’ll get some of that powder from the professor, mix it up, and use it on the statute. It will come off easily and I defy Proctor McNibb to trace where it came from. The professor is a friend of ours, and he’ll keep mum.”
“The very thing!” cried the visitor. “When can you get it?”
“To-morrow, or next day,” answered Bill, who had now entered heart and soul into the piece of mischief. “I’ll get enough to give Pop Weston a liberal coating.”
“Night after to-morrow,” mused Chapin, looking at a calendar over Cap’s table. “That will do. There’s no moon. What about brushes?”