“Aw, you fellows are jealous because you can’t sling the muse around when you want to. Guess I’ll try a second spasm.”
“Not in here,” declared Spike, quickly. “This is a decent, law-abiding place, and, so far, has a good reputation. I’m not going to have the Dean raiding it just because you think you’re a poet. That stuff would give our English Lit. prof. a chill. Can it, Ricky, can it.”
“You’re jealous, that’s all,” and despite the protest Ricky proceeded to grind out a second verse, that he insisted on reading to his audience, which, by this time had increased to half a dozen lads from neighboring rooms. There was quite a jolly little party, and Ricky demanded that they sing his new song, which they finally did, with more or less success.
The strains wafted out of doors and passing students were attracted by the sound until the place was swarming with congenial spirits, and nothing was talked of but the coming game with Harvard.
“It’s queer though, about that red paint,” said Spike, later that night, when he and Joe were alone.
“It sure is,” agreed the pitcher.
“Maybe Hoppy sent someone around to do a bit of daubing, and the chap got in here by mistake,” suggested his chum. But inquiry developed that this was not so, and the mystery remained unsolved for a time.
But after he got in bed, Joe did some hard thinking. He recalled the red paint episode of the spoiled manuscript, and wondered, without believing, if Weston could have come to his room.
“He might have,” reflected Joe, “and he might have had a hardened spot of red paint on his clothes from daubing it on the steps that time. If the hardened upper crust rubbed off, it would leave a fresh spot that might have gotten on my coat. And yet what would he be doing in my closet, let alone in the room here? No, it can’t be that. Unless he sneaked in here—knowing Spike and I would be away—looking for something to use against me.