"My Lord! This is awful!"
"Skippy's found a pet skunk."
"How in blazes are we going to stand it?"
"We won't."
When the odor had finally rolled down the stairs a house meeting was called and the offenders were summoned to appear. Skippy Bedelle and Greaser Tunxton responded and the house adjourned through the windows. Now it happened that the Roman was dining in Princeton that night and the conduct of discipline was in the hands of a young assistant master, lately transferred from the wilds of the Dickinson, Mr. Lorenzo Blackstone Tapping.
Tabby, as he was more affectionately known, was apt to be somewhat confused, as is natural, before an extraordinary crisis, and had made one or two lamentable blunders. In the present case, after immediately sending in a hurry call for the plumber, he departed in a panic for Foundation House, holding before him on a pair of tongs a pair of reeking football stockings which he had seized in the wash basin, while Skippy Bedelle, under strict orders, remained twenty paces to the rear and out of the wind.
Arrived before the dark and awesome, ivy-hidden portals of the Head Master's dread abode, Mr. Tapping carefully deposited the unspeakable mess against the stone steps, stationed the rebellious Skippy under an opposite tree and entered, in a fever of excitement.
"Great heavens!" said the Doctor, starting from his chair. "Are you ill?"
"No, sir, it's not myself. That is, it's—it's the whole house; it's young Bedelle, sir. The fact is, Doctor, the situation was so serious that I—I thought I'd best come to you directly, sir."
"Try to give the details a little more calmly and coherently, Mr. Tapping," said the Doctor, retreating behind a handkerchief and studying the young assistant with a growing suspicion. He indicated his guest and added, "Professor Rootmeyer of Princeton—Mr. Tapping, one of our younger masters."