Frank then said: "Well, you young rascal, you can bet you'd better 'fix 'er.' Don't you ever be guilty of leaving the dirty shirts unless you get the clean ones in their stead. If you ever come back here without any shirts, I'll throw you out this window, as sure as you're a live kid."
The next Saturday, late in the afternoon, we called "the kid" in to do "the exchange act" again. We gave him some special instructions, desiring him to distinctly understand that it wouldn't be healthy for him to venture back to us without two shirts of some kind.
He didn't seem to have the same assurance and confidence as usual, but said "he'd fix 'er." We remained in our room, sitting on the bed without shirts about the usual length of time, when, "the kid" not returning, we began to feel a little shaky.
Directly the door flew open, and in came the chambermaid, and rushed to the commode with clean towels. We had forgotten to lock the door. Frank, with his fund of ready wit, instantly jumped to the floor, and sang out: "Well, put on your gloves again; I'll try you one more round before supper!"
When the door closed on us we had a good laugh, as we had frequently indulged in, when sitting there in that awkward, shirtless, expectant predicament.
Our laugh, although hearty, was of short duration, for we suddenly became serious and anxious about the return of "the kid." An hour passed and no kid, and—still worse—no shirts.
We walked the floor, opened the door and looked towards the stair-way, then raised the window curtain and peeked out upon the street, hoping to get a glimpse of him.
Another half hour passed, and no "kid." We imagined everything that could have befallen him.