Johnny sat down upon the bed and took stock of his position. “It doesn’t seem to me,” thought Johnny, “that I’m ever going to get out of this mess.” Johnny, still muttering, unfastened his stays. “Thank God, that’s off!” ejaculated Johnny piously, as he watched his form slowly expanding. “Suppose I’ll be used to them before I’ve finished with them.”
Johnny had a night of dreams.
For the whole of next day, which was Friday, Johnny remained “Miss Bulstrode,” hoping against hope to find an opportunity to escape from his predicament without confession. The entire Autolycus Club appeared to have fallen in love with him.
“Thought I was a bit of a fool myself,” mused Johnny, “where a petticoat was concerned. Don’t believe these blithering idiots have ever seen a girl before.”
They came in ones, they came in little parties, and tendered him devotion. Even Mrs. Postwhistle, accustomed to regard human phenomena without comment, remarked upon it.
“When you are all tired of it,” said Mrs. Postwhistle to Jack Herring, “let me know.”
“The moment we find her brother,” explained Jack Herring, “of course we shall take her to him.”
“Nothing like looking in the right place for a thing when you’ve finished looking in the others,” observed Mrs. Postwhistle.
“What do you mean?” demanded Jack.
“Just what I say,” answered Mrs. Postwhistle.