“Any messages or letters left?” asked Spike, looking around, but no missives were in sight.
“Oh, well, maybe it was spooks,” declared Joe. “I’m going to get on something comfortable,” and he went to the clothes closet, presently donning an old coat and trousers. Ricky made himself comfortable in an armchair, and the three talked for some time.
“I say, what’s that on your sleeve?” asked Ricky of Joe during a pause. “It looks like red ink. See, you’ve smeared Spike’s trigonometry with it.”
“Quit it, you heathen!” exclaimed the aggrieved one.
“Red ink,” murmured Joe, twisting his sleeve around to get a look at the crimson spot. He touched it with his finger. “It’s paint—red paint!” he exclaimed, “and it’s fresh!”
[CHAPTER XXIII]
JOE’S TRIUMPH
“Red paint!” exclaimed Ricky.