[CHAPTER XX]
PHIL GETS A TELEGRAM
The music stopped with a discord. A strange spell seemed thrown over the dancers. Some, who had come to a stop, now tried to move, and found that their feet were fast to the floor. It was an effort to lift them. The surface that had seemed well waxed was now as sticky as if glue had been poured over it. To walk was almost impossible; to dance, out of the question.
“Maybe it’s only in a few places, and we can scrape it off,” suggested Will Foster, a chum of Gerhart. “Let’s try.”
He endeavored, with his knife, to remove some of the sticky stuff, but he might as well have tried to dig up a board in the floor.
“What is it?” asked Gerhart’s partner.
“I don’t know,” he answered ruefully. “Something very sticky has gotten on the floor.”
“Maybe some of the waiters spilled ice cream or coffee, or some candy got there,” she suggested.
“This is stickier than any of those things,” spoke Gerhart. “I—I guess some one has played a trick on us.”