When they came back, after a hasty session at the “eating joint,” there was a note for each of them tucked under the door, which they had managed to lock pending the attaching of the new mechanism.
“From Gaffington,” announced Dunk, ripping his open. “He’s giving a blow-out to-night. Wants me to come.”
“Same here,” announced Andy, reading his, and then glancing anxiously at his roommate.
“I’m not going,” said Dunk, wadding up the missive and tossing it into the waste-paper basket.
“Neither am I,” said Andy, doing the same.
They began to “doll up,” which, being interpreted, means to attire oneself in one’s best raiment, including the newest tie, the stiffest collar and the most uncomfortable shirt, to say nothing of patent leather shoes a size too small.
“Whew!” panted Andy, as he adjusted his scarf for the fourth or fifth time, “these bargains of Ikey’s aren’t what they’re cracked up to be.”
“I should say not. I don’t believe they’re real silk.”
“Maybe not. They say the Japs can make something that looks like it, but which isn’t any more silk than a shoestring.”
“I believe you. Maybe Ikey has been dabbling in some more of Hashmi’s stuff.”