“Of course, but this is just a joke.”
“Um, yes; but faculty is deficient in humor, you see. Old Toby never did have any, and I guess Collins had his worn out years ago. When’s the next meeting?”
“I don’t know. I think we must have adjourned—what is it?—sine die. I wouldn’t be surprised if the S. P. M. didn’t meet again.”
And doubtless it wouldn’t have, had the weather behaved itself. But on Wednesday forenoon it started in to snow, and in the afternoon the snow changed to rain, and the rain kept up all day Thursday. And fellows who had been softening up their baseball gloves with neatsfoot oil or porpoise grease, or polishing their golf clubs, or taking their tennis rackets from the press, grumbled loudly and said unkind things about the New England climate. Gerald did no audible grumbling, but was vastly disappointed and disgusted, and spent much of his time watching the sky for signs of a break in the weather.
Alf stood Wednesday with equanimity, but on Thursday he grew restive. Practice in the baseball cage wasn’t a satisfactory substitute for outdoor exercise. Casting about for something to amuse himself with, Alf recollected the S. P. M., which, like other of his foolishness, he had promptly forgotten. The result was that just before supper that evening there was a peculiar knock at the door of 28 Clarke, three raps, a pause, and three more. Dan called “Come in!” and the door opened. But the visitor remained outside in the darkened corridor. He wore a black domino over the upper part of his face, and held forth two bulky envelopes.
“Vengeance!” he whispered, hoarsely.
Dan, wondering, took the envelopes, trying to discover the identity of the bearer. The clothes were not familiar to him, but there was something about the mysterious visitor that suggested Alf.
“Who the dickens are you?” asked Dan.
But the other made no answer, and was already retreating into the shadows.
“It’s Alf,” laughed Gerald, looking over his roommate’s shoulder. “Come on in, Alf.”