“Oh! Oh! Oh!” exclaimed Edith Latta, tragically grasping the two girls within her reach, and drawing all eyes in her direction. “We forgot to have them sent down. We were scared out of our wits and we forgot everything.”
Jack Kauffman, who seemed to thrive on bad luck, made straightway for the ’phone, his first resort in all such cases. He rang up Klumpf, the baker.
“What about those fish? Are they done?”
A silence.
“How’s that? I couldn’t quite hear.”
“Taken? Who— Say! what was he like? Tall, light hair, wore a spotted vest and patent leathers. Well, I—”
Kauffman hung up the receiver with an impatient twang.
“I say, fellows and gentlemen, we’re done for. The Sophs have hooked our fish. Jim Wilmore and that crowd—”
“Hello!” The door flew open suddenly, and Bill Winters, one of the Juniors, burst in.
“Here’s something for you fellows. The Sophs sent it over to the Watson House, thinking you were there.” As he spoke he handed what looked like a letter to Jack Kauffman. “Looks as if they have taken your coats,” he added.