“Me, either,” agreed Sid. “But maybe we can get some clew from this clock. Let’s have a look.”
He turned the clock around on the shelf, thereby disturbing its mechanism and stopping the ticking, but he little minded that. He was looking for the maker’s name.
“Say, was our door locked when you fellows got here?” asked Tom, who had been a little in the rear of his companions, due to his injured ankle.
“Sure it was locked,” asserted Phil. “I opened it with my key. Whoever sneaked in here and left the new clock while we were at football practice must have had a duplicate key. How are you making out, Sid?”
“The clock, according to a card pasted on back, was made or sold by Amos Harding, of Chicago.”
“Chicago!” cried Tom, in some excitement. “That’s where Langridge came from! Is it possible that he could have come over from Boxer Hall, and played this joke?”
“It’s possible, but not probable,” declared Sid. “But we could write to Chicago, and see if Mr. Harding could give us any clew.”
“Oh, what’s the use?” asked Phil. “Chicago is a big place, and it’s hardly likely that a dealer there would remember to whom he sold a particular clock, when there are a whole lot like it. This clock is of fairly common pattern, though it’s rather expensive. I’m inclined to think that we’ll never get on to the game that way.”
“What have you got to suggest?” asked Tom, as he prepared to bathe his ankle, while Sid set the clock going again.
“I was going to say that we might post a notice on the bulletin board, stating that we’d had enough of the joke, and would exchange clocks back again.”