“Did your chair have a sort of reddish-brown cover on it?” went on Frank.
“That may have been the color once,” broke in the irrepressible Dutch, “but it was sky-blue pink when it walked away, for these fellows used to empty their ink bottles on it, and use the upholstery for a blotter.”
“Cheese it!” cried Tom. “Yes, Frank, the cover was a reddish-brown.”
“And were the legs carved with claws, and the arms with lions’ heads?” went on the Californian.
“Exactly! Say!” cried Phil, “like the dervish in the story of the camel, have you got our old chair?”
He arose, and fairly glared at Frank. The latter, too, had been growing more serious as he proceeded with his questions. Sid and Tom leaned forward eagerly, and Dutch looked on, wondering what was coming next.
“I haven’t got your chair,” went on Frank, “but when I know what kind it is, as I do now for the first time, I think I can give you news of it.”
“Then, for the love of Mike and the little fishes, speak!” cried Tom.
“Or forever after hold your peace,” chimed in Dutch, solemnly.
“Where’s our chair?” demanded Phil, dramatically.