“Shampooing nothing! It’s red paint, and some of those musty manuscripts that a prof. had,” and he poured out the tale.
“Red paint?” murmured Joe.
“Yes. There’s a fierce row over it, and the Dean has taken it up. If the fellows are found out they’ll be expelled sure. Oh, but it was a night! But the red paint was the limit.”
Joe did not answer, but in a flash there came to him the scene where Weston had entered his room, thrusting his hand into his pocket—a hand smeared with red.
“Fierce row,” went on Ricky, who was a natural reporter, always hearing sensations almost as soon as they happened. “The prof. went sprawling on his steps, not knowing the goo was there and the papers—— Oh me! Oh my! I wonder who did it?”
“Hard to tell I guess,” answered Joe, “with the bunch that was out last night.”
“That’s so. I’m glad it wasn’t any of our fellows. We all stuck together—that is all but you——” and, as if struck by a sudden thought, he gazed anxiously at Joe.
“Oh, I can prove an alibi all right,” laughed the pitcher. “Don’t worry.”
“Glad of it. Well, let’s hike. There goes the bell.”