"No," said I, calmly; "I never saw it before."
"Well, then, somebody must have broken into our office last night. For when I came in this morning, I found the oil all burned out of the big lamp,—I filled it yesterday,—and these torn scraps in the wood-box. I got so many together pretty easily, but I can't find another one that will fit."
"It looks as if it had been a poem," said I.
"Yes," said Ned; "of course it was. And oh, look here! It was an acrostic, too!"
Ned took out his pencil, and filled in what he supposed to be the missing initial letters, making the name VIOLA GLIDDEN.
"It may have been an acrostic," said I; "but you can't tell with certainty, so much is missing."
"There isn't any doubt in my mind," said Ned; "and it's perfectly evident who was the burglar. Everybody knows who's sweet on Viola Glidden."
"I should think a good many would be sweet on her," said I; "she's the handsomest girl in town."
"Well, then," said Ned, "look at that 'otus dext.' Of course it was totus dexter,—and who's the boy that uses that classic expression? I wouldn't have thought that so nice a fellow as Holman would break in here at midnight, and put his mushy love-poetry into print at our expense. He must have been here about all night, for that lamp full of oil lasts nine hours."
"There's an easy way to punish him, whoever he was," said Phaeton, who had come in in time to hear most of our conversation.