“What’d you give us the slip for?”
“Come on; give an account of yourself.”
These were only a few of the greetings that welcomed him as he entered his apartment to find there, snugly ensconced on the beds, chair, sofa and table, his own room-mate and the other friends who had gone out that wild night.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Spike, in some alarm, as he saw his friend limping.
“Oh, nothing much. Twisted ankle. I’ll be all right in the morning. How did you fellows make out?”
“Nothing doing,” said Ricky. “The boobs that shampooed us split after we got on their trail, and we lost ’em. Did you see anything of ’em?”
“Not much,” said Joe, truthfully enough.
“Then where did you go?”
He explained how he had twisted on his ankle, and turned back, and how, in coming home, he had met Kendall. He said nothing of watching Weston and another chap do something to the stoop of the unknown professor’s house.
“Mighty white of Kendall,” was Spike’s opinion, and it was voiced by all.