"For the love of mud!" exclaimed Tom. "Can't you get down to dots? Is it all right or isn't it?"
Tim smiled exasperatingly. "Then he showed us——"
Tom arose to his feet and took a step toward him.
"It's all right," said Tim hurriedly. "Everything, Thomas! We told him what was up and how we didn't want Josh to find out it was us who attended Mr. Corrigan's fire party and asked him if he would please not remember what we looked like if Josh asked him. And he said——"
"He laughed," interrupted Clint, and chuckled himself.
"That's right! He laughed a lot. 'You're a little bit late,' he said. 'Mr. Fernald called me up by telephone nearly a week ago, fellows, and wanted to know all about it.' 'You didn't tell him?' I yelped. 'No, I couldn't,' he said. 'You see, you hadn't told me your names, and it was pretty dark that night and somehow or other I just couldn't seem to recall what you looked like! Mr. Fernald sounded considerably disappointed and like he didn't quite believe me, but that can't be helped.' Say, fellows, I wanted to hug him! Or—or buy an egg or something! Honest, I did! He's all right, what?"
"He's a corker!" said Tom, sighing with relief. "You don't suppose Corrigan or any of the others there that night would remember us, do you?"
"Not likely. Mr. Brady didn't think so, anyway."
"Then it's all to the merry!" cried Tom. "Gee, but that's a load off my mind!"
"Off your what?" asked Tim curiously.