"Herc, you poor fellow, I'm sorry for you," he exclaimed. "You've tumbled into a cactus-bush."
"Oh, is that it?" rejoined Herc. "Well, whatever it is, I can't walk till I get some of these stickers out of me. You go ahead, Ned, and I'll meet you here in half an hour when Tom gets back."
And so it was agreed that Herc was to await Ned's return and employ the time in extracting what he called "stickers."
"Good-bye, Herc," said Ned, under his breath, as he slipped off cautiously, avoiding moonlit spots and dodging along in the black shadows.
"So long," muttered Herc, as he painfully made toward the hotel steps. "If ever I get these things out of me," he added to himself, "I'll never put a tack in any one's chair again. I know just how it feels now. I'm full of that tack-tus, or whatever you call it."
With the aid of a grinning colored bell-boy, Herc soon got rid of most of his "bristles." By the time old Tom arrived at the appointed meeting-place he was comparatively comfortable once more.
"Where's Ned?" demanded the old salt, gazing about him, as Herc greeted him.
"Oh, he'll be here in a minute. He just went off to talk to some old friends—or rather acquaintances," responded Herc lightly. "He'll be here immediately or sooner."
But Ned was not "here" in a few minutes or in many minutes.
Impatiently the two—the Dreadnought Boy and the old blue-jacket—awaited his coming, but the lad did not appear.