Three minutes later the Doctor, attired in a dark red, figured dressing-gown, was hurrying across the yard, framing as he went soothing words for the distraught professor. But half-way across, the Doctor’s eyes, near-sighted though they were, solved the mystery. He paused in the middle of the grass-plot, his dressing-gown held away from the moisture, and read the inscription. His first emotion was one of relief; the professor had not gone insane! Then succeeded indignation, and he strode on across the turf with heightened color.
“What is this? What is this?” he demanded.
The professor turned and his jaw dropped. For a moment, I’m firmly convinced, the professor seriously considered pleading guilty to the offense. Doubtless the uselessness of the project occurred to him in time, for he laid the scrubbing-brush down, absent-mindedly wiped his dripping hands on his trousers and sighed deeply.
“It’s blue paint, Doctor,” he said.
“But how did it get here? Who has done this?”
“It’ll be one of the boys, I’m thinking,” answered Kilts sorrowfully, shaking his head. “Just a bit of thoughtlessness, ye ken, Doctor.”
“Thoughtlessness!” said the Doctor with a snort. “Vandalism, you mean, sir.”
“Well, well, I’m getting it off nicely, Doctor. If you could find another brush, now, I’m thinking that between us we could—”
“What!” ejaculated the Doctor. “Are you crazy, McIntyre? Leave it as it is, man! This is no work for you!”
“Well, I thought likely it would cause less trouble if I got it off before the boys saw it, Doctor.” The professor wiped the perspiration from his forehead and looked regretfully at his pail and brush.