“Well, you’ll let us know, as soon as you hear, what the worst news is; won’t you?” asked Frank, as he fairly threw himself on the old couch. “We want——”
But the rest of Frank’s sentence was lost in a momentous cracking sound, a splintering of wood and a tearing of cloth. Then a cloud of dust filled the room, and following the crash, there came a melancholy voice, saying:
“Oh sweet spirits of nitre! Now I have gone and done it! She’s busted!”
“What?” cried Sid.
“Who?” demanded Tom.
“The old couch. I—I sat down too hard on it. The back is broken, I guess. Lend me a hand, somebody!”
Frank tried to struggle to his feet, but he had been pinned fast between the collapsed parts of the couch, and had to be fairly pulled out.
“Well, I should say you had done it,” remarked Sid mournfully, as he surveyed the wreck of the old sofa.
“Can’t it be mended?” asked Tom, trying to raise the two ends. The couch was like a ship with a broken back.