Thereupon Andy stumbled about in the blackness, barking his shins on a chair and stubbing his toe over a big dictionary that had fallen from the table. But finally the gas was turned off.
Frank then opened a window and let out the choking fumes, for, by reason of Andy's delay, considerable of the vapor had escaped. They lighted the jet a few minutes later.
Andy was about to resume the pillow fight, for he was a fun-loving lad and seldom wanted to stop any sport once it was started. He was just about to launch one of the soft missiles at his brother when there came a sharp but gentle tap on the door.
"Who's there?" asked Frank.
"It's me—Jack Sanderson," was the whispered reply. "What in the name of the Seven Sacred Snakes are you fellows up to? Old Callum is on the warpath. He's sneaking down from his room to catch you. Hop into bed, even if you aren't undressed. I just slipped down the back way to warn you. Cheese it, here he comes! I'll see you later."
The brothers heard the rapid retreat of shoeless feet.
"Gee horse!" exclaimed Andy. "He sure has it in for us. If he catches us—"
"Don't let him!" exclaimed Frank in a whisper. "Slip your night shirt on over your clothes and hop in bed. I'll douse the glim."
No sooner had this been done, and the brothers had only time to pull the bed clothes up over themselves when there came a loud and imperative summons on their door.
A hearty snore issued from Frank. It was a good imitation. Once more the knock, followed by another snore.