"It wasn't," said the unmistakable voice of Watkins, from the chair, which had been repaired.
Parley jumped as if stung.
"You're a gay old valedictorian, you are!" he cried, glowering at the chair. "Next time you have a Christmas gift for mankind, take it and burn it, will you? A pretty fix you've got me into."
"I'm sorry, Parley," began the ghost. "I—"
"Sorry be hanged!" cried Parley. "If you hadn't made me believe in you, I might have crammed up on my Greek and Latin anyhow. As it is, it's a Waterloo all around."
"If you won't listen—" the ghost began again.
"I've listened enough!" roared Parley, thoroughly enraged. "And if there was any way in which I could get at you, I'd make you smart for your low-down trick!"
"To think," moaned the ghost, "that I should see the day when old Billie Watkins was accused of a low-down trick—and I tried to help him, too."
"Tried to help me?" sneered Parley. "How the deuce do you make that out? You didn't come within a mile of me, and I've not only flunked, but I've lost a half-dozen bets on my ability to pass, just because I believed in you."
"I was within a mile of you," retorted the ghost, indignantly. "I was right square in front of you."