He found his old friend getting ready for an evening performance, filling his gasoline torches, looking over his stock of supplies, and tuning the banjo with which, and his not unmelodious voice, he drew a throng about the gaily painted wagon.
“Ha, my young friend, back again!” cried the professor. “Greetings to you. And where are the brothers?”
“Studying, I expect, or making a pretense to.”
“Good again! Ah, the lamp of learning burns brightly when one is young. What ho! Mercurio! Some more gasoline for this torch! We must have light!” Then the professor having ordered about an imaginary slave, proceeded to fill the torch himself.
“Speaking of lamps of learning,” broke in Bill, thinking this was a good time to announce his errand, “we’re going to do a little illumination over at Westfield on our own account. How much of that pink paint have you, Professor?”
“Pink paint—you mean my Matchless Complexion Tinting Residuum?”
“I guess that’s it. We need some.”
“For a masked ball?”
“For a bronze statue,” replied Bill, and he proceeded to relate the details of the plot. The professor listened carefully. Bill told everything, and at length the traveling vendor asked:
“Did you and your brothers think of this scheme, Bill?”