He stepped to the neat work bench and withdrew the black covering cloth from a bulky cabinet.
“If I’m the father of that,” snorted Stan, “I ought to be ashamed of myself. Why, it’s out of date, obsolete—no one builds cabinets three feet high any more. What in heck is it, anyway?”
“It,” said Dick, “is, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted”—he coughed, with a dignified air—“something for which you, only you, and no one but you, are responsible.”
“How come? I’ll bite.”
“It’s a long story, Stan. You probably remember the trick story that you told me a few weeks ago, at the end of which you left abruptly, so that I might not, with the powers of pure logic, destroy what you seemed to believe a miracle?”
“I remember, all right, only I didn’t say it was a miracle, and the story was not a trick story—I told you it was gospel truth, and I wasn’t kidding.”
“Uh-huh,” agreed Dick. “Well, be that as it may, your dramatic exit left me with an unsolved puzzle in my head, as you no doubt intended that it should, and knowing me as you do, old egg-beater, you certainly must know what the result of such a condition upon me would naturally be.”
“My gawsh!” Stan exclaimed; “you don’t mean to say you’ve doped out about those musical notes, do you? If you have, I’ll surely hand it to—”
“In that case, I’m sorry to confess that I haven’t. But look in the cabinet.”