CHAPTER XVIII. MRS. BOWSER'S CAT.
"The question before this honorable board," began the Codfish, as he stretched himself out one night in Frank's Morris chair before Frank's comfortable blaze, thus displaying his characteristic hosiery of vivid color, "is, what has become of Mrs. Bowser's cat? Don't all speak at once."
It was a cold day in the middle of January. Football had been laid away on the shelf for two months. The ticklish period of examinations before the Christmas holidays was a thing of the past, and all examinations had been passed successfully by our friends, although Lewis had had a tight squeeze. Frank, Jimmy, the Codfish, Lewis and David were gathered around the blazing fire. Books had been tossed aside for the night, when the Codfish propounded his question.
"The poor thing couldn't stand that hymn in Chapel this morning," said Frank. "When you raised your voice she skipped to the tall timbers."
"I don't blame her, do you, Frank?" inquired Jimmy. "The Codfish has a voice which would drive a biped crazy, to say nothing of a quadruped or even a centipede. He sings on both sides of the note and never hits it."
"What happened to the old cat, anyway?" broke in Lewis, as the Codfish was about to come back at Jimmy with hot shot.
"Ask the Codfish," returned Frank. "He was on the aisle where the whole thing happened. Maybe he was responsible for the presence of Tabby, and if he was, he has first-hand information of the greatest importance. Out with it, Codfish."
"Not guilty!" said the accused, stretching himself still further till his feet touched the fender. "I got tangled up with the Bowser family once, and once is enough. I stand before you guiltless of the dastardly deed."
"Who brought the cat in, anyway?"
"Give it up," said the Codfish. "Some one of those fresh young things on the east aisle. The proctors are looking for him, and if they find him and Mrs. Bowser gets her hand on him, there will be a funeral at some rural household, I'm thinking."