Hitting the line

by Ralph Henry Barbour

A feller to git throwed that way!”

Monty jingled the keys in his pocket in soft accompaniment to his triumphant song as he walked toward the corner of the building. But having reached the corner, he paused in the shadow there. The question confronting him was what to do with the keys. They were no use to him, were heavy in his pocket, and made a noise as he walked. There ought to be, he reflected, an appropriate place to deposit them. But he didn’t see one that he favored until his gaze fell on the lighted and open window of a room close at hand. It was the corner room in the building, and, as he determined when he had softly pushed his way through the branches of the shrubs between walk and building, was evidently a study.

It was more elaborately furnished than other studies Monty had seen, and the pictures on the walls were rather more “classy.” A light on a big mahogany writing table was turned low under its green shade. Best of all, the apartment was deserted. By standing close to it, and rising on his tiptoes he could stretch his hand through the window and reach the top of a small cabinet which stood against the wall at the right. The top of the cabinet was already occupied by various small articles, but they could be pushed aside. Monty listened and looked. No one was in sight, and, save for the subdued din of the singers in the common room, all was silent. In a moment the booty was disposed of. One key fell to the floor with an alarming rattle, but nothing happened in consequence. Monty withdrew noiselessly, got cautiously back to the path, and proceeded on his way home across the campus. He met no one, and a few minutes later climbed the stairs of Morris and entered his room looking as innocent as a cherub.

At the washstand, Alvin Standart was sopping a sponge against his nose and sniffling weirdly. Monty gazed delightedly.

“Hello,” he said. “Who gave it to you?”

“Nobody,” replied Alvin, sniffling between syllables. “It’s just a nose-bleed. I have them sometimes.”

“Oh,” murmured Monty, disappointedly. “What for?”

“What for?” echoed Alvin in disgust. “Because I can’t help it, you fresh chump.”

Monty pondered that, looking on interestedly while Alvin continued his efforts to stop the hemorrhage. Finally, “Look here,” he said, “isn’t there something you do for it? Seems to me I’ve heard of something. Let’s see. I know! You put a lump of ice on the back of the neck or against the spine. That’s it. And if you haven’t any ice you use something cold, like a—paper-knife.”