“Haven’t any ice,” grumbled Alvin.
“Wait a bit. A knife will do, or—here’s the very thing!” Monty’s inquiring hands had encountered a key in his pocket, and he drew it forth triumphantly. “Here you are. Hold that against the back of your neck, like that.”
“Ouch! It’s cold!”
“Sure! It ought to be. Got it? All you’ve got to do is to hold it there until your nose stops bleeding.”
“Well—well, suppose it doesn’t? Think I’m going to stand here all night holding this thing?”
“Search me,” answered Monty cheerfully. “You don’t expect me to do it, do you? Couldn’t you sit down and hold it?”
“No, because I’ve used up all the handkerchiefs I’ve got and— Oh, gee!”
“What’s the matter?” inquired Monty, looking up from his work of removing his shoes.
“It’s gone.”