“Oh, no, I didn’t get wet! I carried an umbrella all the time, you silly toad! Or maybe you think they roofed the gridiron over for us?”
“Well, I got sort of water-logged myself, and don’t you let any one tell you any different! Wait till I return this rain-coat and I’ll tell you about it.”
“I’ve got troubles enough of my own,” grumbled Ned, as Laurie crossed the corridor.
Kewpie wasn’t in when the borrowed garment was returned, but Hop Kendrick was, and Hop said it was quite all right, that Ned was welcome to anything of Kewpie’s at any time, and please just stick it in the closet or somewhere. And Laurie thanked him gratefully and placed the rain-coat, which wasn’t very wet now, where he had found it. And the incident would have ended then and there if it hadn’t started in to rain cats and dogs again after supper and if Kewpie hadn’t taken it into his head to pay a visit to a fellow in West Hall. Which is introductory to the fact that at eight o’clock that evening, while Ned and Laurie were conscientiously absorbed in preparing to-morrow’s Latin, a large and irate youth appeared at the door of Number 16 with murder in his eyes and what appeared to be gore on his hands!
“That’s a swell way to return a fellow’s coat!” he accused.
He brandished one gory hand dramatically, and with the other exhumed from a pocket of the garment a moist and shapeless mass of brown paper and chocolate creams. “Look at this!” he exhorted. “It—it’s all over me! The pocket’s a regular glue-pot! Ugh!”
Laurie looked and his shoulders heaved.
“Oh, Kewpie!” he gurgled, contrition—or something—quite overmastering him. “I’m s-s-so s-s-sorry!”
Kewpie regarded him scathingly a moment, while syrupy globules detached themselves from the exhibit and ran along his wrist. Finally he exploded: “Sorry! Yes, you are!”
Whereupon the door closed behind him with an indignant crash, and Laurie, unable longer to contain his sorrow, dropped his head on his books and gave way to it unrestrainedly.