“He gave us the double cross,” commented Sid.
“Oh, go ahead, unveil the statue,” suggested Holly. “This suspense is terrible!”
With a sudden pull Frank whisked the sheet to one side, and there followed a gasp of astonishment. For a moment no one spoke. Surprise held them dumb. Then Tom found his voice.
“Oh mudlarks!” he cried feebly.
“Paregoric!” came faintly from Sid.
“Catch me, somebody, before I faint!” gasped Phil, as he staggered back into the arms of Dutch Housenlager, who promptly deposited him on the floor.
And well might the three chums give vent to ejaculations of surprise, dismay and anguish.
For there, in place of the old sofa that had served them in calm and storm, in stress of disaster and in the joys of victories, there stood a new and shining piece of furniture—spick and span in bright green plush, with a glossy mahogany frame—a davenport, large, roomy, comfortable—the acme of luxury. The old sofa had been metamorphosed—it had suffered a “sea change into something new and strange,” as Holly quoted afterward.
“Wha—what has happened?” asked Phil weakly, rubbing his eyes to make sure it was not a vision of the night.
“Can I believe my senses?” asked Sid.