Kitabı oku: «Right End Emerson», sayfa 4

CHAPTER VII
JIMMY GOES SHOPPING

Jimmy was very conscientiously obeying Mart Proctor’s request to practice punting. As a senior who was not overburdening himself with extra courses, Jimmy had several periods of leisure between nine in the morning and three in the afternoon, and while these periods came at different hours on different days they never failed, and, as it happened, Tuesdays came very close to being full holidays for him. On those days his morning was blissfully free from the requirements of class attendance, and not until eleven-thirty did his schedule mean a thing to him. Usually there was some one on the field when Jimmy arrived who was quite willing to chase his punts and kick them back to him, and so he had already put in a good many hours of work outside the regular practice sessions. He had requisitioned a football from Jake and kept it in his room, since more often than not he went from dormitory to field without stopping at the gymnasium for a change of raiment. Casting aside his jacket, he was ready for the task, since he always affected knickerbockers. An old pair of football shoes, one having a tan lacing and the other a black, which ordinarily kicked about under his bed collecting dust, were donned before leaving the room. On Tuesdays, however, Jimmy dressed for the work and engaged the aid of some football aspirant whose hours of leisure matched his.

On this particular Tuesday, the day following the small events narrated in the preceding chapter, Jimmy, having picked up the football from where it had lodged under Stanley’s bed, viewed it with disapprobation. It was a very old ball, and a very scarred and battered one. As Jimmy mentally phrased it, it had whiskers all over it, by which he meant that what may be termed the epidermis of the ball was abraded and scruffy and adorned with little – for want of a better word – hang-nails of leather which in Jimmy’s opinion mitigated seriously against both distance and accuracy. Of course he couldn’t expect a brand-new ball, but it did seem as if Jake might have found one less feeble and senile than this! Why, the poor thing ought to have been retired on a pension years ago! Jimmy viewed it dubiously and at last distastefully, dropping it from one hand to the other. If he had a decent ball to work with —

Well, why not? If the management wouldn’t afford him one, why not buy one of his own? Why not indeed? Jimmy tossed the ancient pigskin from him, unmindful of direction or ultimate destination, pulled out the top drawer of his chiffonier and selected two bills from a number that reposed in a small box there. Then he looked at his watch. He had commandeered Neirsinger, a quarter-back candidate, for half-past nine. It was now twelve minutes after. In eighteen minutes he could get to West street, purchase a new football and – well, if not reach the field at least get within sight of it. So, stuffing the money in a pocket, he hurried forth and down the stairs and across the Green by an illegal but well-defined path that led straight to the center gate. Being like most of us a creature of habit, Jimmy’s subconscious mind was leading him to Crocker’s hardware store, and to Crocker’s hardware store he would have gone, so, doubtless, moving Stanley to reproaches, had his eyes not caught sight of an unaccustomed object when, having traveled the block between the Green and West street, he turned to his left on the latter thoroughfare.

The object was suspended above a doorway a half-dozen rods from the corner, a sign about two feet in length and somewhat less than a foot and a half wide. It hung from a projecting wrought-iron rod, at right angles to the building, and presented a bravely gay broadside to the passers, for paint and gilt were still new and fresh upon it. There was background of dead black against which was portrayed a golden-brown football. Above and below the ball read the legend in plain but quaintly old-fashioned lettering: Sign of the Football. The letters, like the molding that surrounded the whole, were of gilt. In its way, that swinging sign was quite a work of art, and Jimmy, who had a keen appreciation of the picturesque, paid it tribute ere, stopping stock-still two doors away, he viewed it fixedly, frowningly for a moment. Then:

“‘Inverted bracket,’” he muttered triumphantly. “‘Inverted bracket.’ That’s it!”

He went on triumphantly, aware now that he had no business to transact at Crocker’s, and wondering that he had forgotten the new store. Under the glittering sign he stopped and observed the windows. In that at his left were displayed four weary-looking geraniums, bearing a few pink blossoms, in pots; two ornamental vases filled with dahlias of various hues; a glass sign that leaned against the vases and proclaimed in gold letters against a black ground: Pulsifer the Florist – Funerals a Specialty; and, finally, somewhat in the background and so unobtrusively suggestive, a wreath of artificial ivy and white roses. Jimmy turned from this appalling display with a shudder and moved to the window beyond.

This, he told himself commendingly, was better. Against an expanse of clean white paper lay, at either side, a pennant; at the left the gold-and-gray of Alton, at the right the blue-and-white of High School. Between these had been assembled a fairly enticing array of seasonable articles: a football, a head harness, a nose-guard, one of the small horns affected by umpires, a shining nickel whistle, two pairs of shoes, two pairs of woolen hose, a tennis racket, a box of felt-clad balls and one or two other objects. Across the back of the window hung a low curtain of dark blue material and against it was a colorful poster: a brawny youth in togs, football nestled against his ribs, arm outstretched, face stern with ferocious determination, spurning a vividly green sod beneath flying feet. Below the figure was the cryptic legend: “PandF spells Best.”

Jimmy entered the store. It wasn’t a very large store, even for West street, and it was rather dark. On the left was the establishment of J. Warren Pulsifer: a long counter, bare save for some wrapping paper and a box of pins, a desk surrounded by iron grilling, a refrigerator, or what looked like such, behind whose glass doors could be indistinctly glimpsed a modest stock of flowers in tall, brown papier-mâché receptacles. There were, also, two tiers of shelves back of the counter, and these held an array of dusty boxes. Behind the iron grilling a tall, dejected looking man with faded hair and mustache looked anxiously up from his desk as Jimmy entered and then with a slump of his narrow shoulders that was, Jimmy was certain, accompanied by a sigh of relief, returned to his occupation.

The other side of the store held a duplicate of the long counter, but it had been recently varnished and so presented a different appearance. Varnished, also, had been the shelves beyond, while a six-foot show-case near the entrance lent an added air of luxury. In fact, this side of the store was, in contrast, almost startlingly gay. Boxes of various colors thronged the shelves, pennants hung above them, a blue-and-white sweater lay across the counter, articles of leather and metal gleamed from the show-case, show-cards and posters and placards were numerous. Jimmy thought, in fact, that there were rather too many of these latter, even if they did lend a certain air of business. Viewing cannily the, after all, rather scanty furnishings and stock on hand, he felt that there was something akin to bravado in that display of advertising placards.

There was but one customer within when Jimmy arrived, a small youth of perhaps a dozen years who was frowning doubtfully over a helmet displayed before him on the counter. Behind the latter stood the senior partner of the new firm, and at Jimmy’s appearance he looked up inquiringly.

“Hello,” said Jimmy, ending his leisurely inspection of the premises. “I’d like to get a football, please. No hurry.” He had quite forgotten Neirsinger and the flight of time.

“Just a moment,” answered Russell. The boy laid the helmet down with a sigh of rejection.

“Maybe I’ll be back,” he muttered, and turned away from the counter with a last desirous look at the article.

“All right,” replied Russell cordially. “Glad to see you.”

Jimmy smiled as Russell turned to him. “Didn’t have enough money, I guess,” he said.

Russell shook his head, and smiled, too. “I showed him a cheaper one, and one that would have fitted him, but he said he wanted to buy one he could ‘grow into’! You wanted a football?” He reached to a shelf behind him, drew down a box, set it on the counter and took the lid off. The box was empty, and he pushed it aside and reached for another. “Silly to put the empties back on the shelf,” he said carelessly as he opened the next box. Jimmy’s gaze roved over the rows of boxes and he smiled quizzically, but to himself.

The football looked very good to him as he searchingly examined it, but it was different from those he had been used to, a fact explained when his eyes fell on a design lightly burned into the outer leather. It was a diamond enclosing the characters “P. & F.” Curiosity clamored. “Say, for the love of lemons, Emerson, what does ‘P. & F.’ mean?” he demanded.

“Proctor and Farnham. They’re the makers. Ever used any of their goods?”

“No, never heard of them. New folks?”

“New in the East. They’ve been making footballs and things for years and selling in the West. They’ve just begun to go after this part of the country and we succeeded in getting the agency here. Very good stuff they make. Notice the way that ball is sewed? Those seams can’t open in a hundred years, I guess. And that leather’s the best horsehide procurable. There’s a big difference in leather, you know. Some balls scuff up the first time they’re used after they’ve been once wet.”

Jimmy nodded. “I know. Looks pretty good, still I’m sort of used to the other balls, Emerson.”

“I can sell you your kind,” Russell returned, “but I’d like awfully to have you try one of these. You see, fellows are sort of shy of new things and you’ve got to get them started. After that they go all right. If you care to try this Proctor and Farnham ball I’ll guarantee to give you a new ball or your money back if you decide you don’t like it after a fair trial.”

“Fair enough,” said Jimmy. “I’ll take it. By the way, what’s the price?” His eyebrows lifted when he heard it and he frowned a little. “What’s the price of the others?”

“Just the same,” replied Russell, folding a paper neatly about the pasteboard box.

“But that’s forty cents less than Crocker asks!” protested Jimmy.

“Then they ask forty cents too much,” answered the other calmly. “I think you’ll find Crocker’s prices going down before long.”

“I wouldn’t wonder,” agreed Jimmy. He picked up a pair of greenish-gray sport hose from the counter. “How much are these?”

“Three and a half,” said Russell. “We’ve got some good ones for less, though.”

“Guess I don’t need any just now, but those are mighty good-looking. Doing any business yet, Emerson?”

“Fair,” answered Russell, exchanging the bundle for Jimmy’s money. “Of course, it takes time to get started.”

“I suppose so.” With bundle in hand, Jimmy showed little inclination to hurry away. “You seem to have a pretty big stock here,” he went on. “Must take some money to get a place like this going.”

Russell nodded. “Quite a bit,” he agreed. “We haven’t laid in much except fall stuff yet. Have to go a bit slow at first.”

“Yes,” mused Jimmy. He was wondering if the storekeeper recognized him. If he had he certainly hadn’t shown it by so much as a flicker of his eye-lids. “Say, I saw you at that hotel at Pine Harbor, didn’t I?” he asked.

“Yes, I waited on you there,” replied Russell readily.

“I thought so,” murmured Jimmy. He was sitting on the edge of the counter now, swinging his legs thoughtfully. “Say, Emerson, I like your pluck,” he continued after a moment. “Working there at the hotel, you know, and then starting this place. Makes me feel downright lazy and no-good, though. Hope you’ll have all kinds of success.”

“Thanks,” said Russell, a little surprised. “I guess I wouldn’t be doing either thing if I didn’t have to, though, Austen; so I suppose there isn’t much credit coming to me.”

“Rot!” said Jimmy. “Lots of fellows need money and never think of getting out and hustling for it. They just let the old man come across with it. Don’t see why a fellow shouldn’t help his folks put him through school and college. Wish I could do it myself!”

“Can’t you?” laughed Russell.

Jimmy shook his head and frowned. “Wouldn’t know what to do nor how to do it,” he answered. “Besides, my father wouldn’t – ” But he stopped there. “How do you fix it for time?” he resumed. “I mean, don’t recitations interfere with looking after this place?”

“Yes, but we manage pretty well. You see, Patterson’s a senior and I’m a junior, and most days we make it go all right. If we can’t either of us be here Mr. Pulsifer explains that we’ll be back in an hour. I suppose we lose some customers that way, but it can’t be helped. The store is closed for an hour at noon, too, but lots of them do that in this part of town. To-day I’m here until a couple of minutes to ten and then Stick – that’s my partner – stays until twelve. I’m here always in the afternoon from three-thirty to six, and sometimes Stick comes over, too. When there’s no one to wait on we can study pretty well here.”

“I thought you were playing football with the second, though,” said Jimmy.

“I had to give it up,” replied Russell. “Some one has to be here afternoons, and three mornings a week I can’t get around at all and Stick has to do it all.”

“Too bad, though,” Jimmy said. “About football, I mean. Still, maybe they don’t need you much. The scrubs have been pushing us around pretty fiercely so far.” Jimmy looked at his watch, whistled and jumped to the floor. “I must be getting back. I’ll give this ball a try-out this morning, Emerson, and let you know how I like it. And I’ll see that fellows know about your prices, too! Good luck!”

So Jimmy went his way briskly, a full twenty minutes late, and Russell, folding up the stockings that the customer had admired, smiled contentedly. He had at last succeeded in selling a “P. & F.” football, after several attempts, and, fortunately, to a fellow who, for some unknown reason, was anxious to boost the store. Russell decided to order four more balls that very day, since, in spite of the brave array of boxes on the shelf which looked as if they might contain footballs, the only other ball in stock reposed in the window!

When, presently, Stick Patterson arrived Russell announced to him the sale with much satisfaction and delegated to him the writing and mailing of the order to New York. Stick was equally pleased, but he voiced doubts as to the order. “They cost a lot of money, Rus,” he said. “Better get two instead of four, don’t you think? We can order two more later if those sell.”

“All right,” Russell agreed. Sometimes Stick’s conservatism was a trifle dampening, but he realized that it wasn’t a bad idea to have such a check on his enthusiasm. Without it his optimism might some day lead him to an error of judgment. “I’ll bet we’ll sell them, though, Stick. Austen’s sort of a leader in his crowd, and if he likes that ball he will say so, and from what he said I know he wants to like it, and I’m sure he will.”

“I fancy the ball’s all right,” returned Stick cautiously, “but not many fellows buy them. Did he want tick?”

“No, he didn’t say anything about having it charged. I was mighty glad, too, for I’d have hated to have lost a customer like him.”

“Wish the fellows that come around when I’m here were like that,” retorted Stick. “They always want tick and get sore when I tell them we don’t give credit. Any one else in, Rus?”

“Only a small kid looking at a helmet. He may be back. I tried to sell him one of the cheap ones, but he wouldn’t have it. Well, I’ll run along, Stick.”

“All right.” Stick seated himself behind the counter near the window, leaned his chair back and opened his book. “Say, Rus, how much longer do you think we can hold out if we don’t do any more business than we’ve been doing?”

Russell stopped at the door and leaned across to speak in a voice so lowered that it would not reach the rather prominent ears of Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer. “About three weeks, Stick,” he said soberly. “But we’re going to begin to sell things long before that, so don’t get the crêpe out yet. You wait and see, Stick!”

“I’ll wait, all right,” grumbled Stick as the other hurried out, “but I’m sure of one thing, and that is I wish I’d never let him get me into this blamed partnership!”

CHAPTER VIII
THE SECOND TEAM COACH

“Want to try a good ball, Mart?” asked Jimmy that afternoon while the candidates were assembling for practice.

Mart Proctor accepted the pigskin and looked it over critically. “Where’d you get it, Jimmy?” he inquired. Jimmy explained and Captain Proctor dropped the ball to the ground, caught it on the rise, balanced it in his right hand, tried it in his left and then fell to a careful inspection of the seams.

“Looks good,” he commented.

“It is good,” responded Jimmy earnestly. “Try a kick, Mart.”

So Mart, nothing loth, swung a sturdy leg, dropped the ball and watched with satisfaction its forty-five-yard flight down the field. “Kicks well,” he acknowledged while a willing youth chased the pigskin and hurled it back. “Let’s see it again, Jimmy.”

But while Jimmy was handling it a third person joined them. “What make of ball is that, Cap?” asked Mr. Cade.

“I don’t know. Jimmy here is booming it. Something he got in the village at the new store a couple of the fellows have started.”

“Proctor and Farnham,” commented the coach as he read the label. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of it. Used out West a lot, I believe. Very sturdy looking trick, isn’t it? Feels nice, too. A good wet weather ball, I’d say. Grain’s very heavy, if you notice. Gives you a good hold.”

“It’s the best ball I ever put a foot to,” declared Jimmy impressively. “I can get a lot better distance with it than I can with the ball we’re using.”

The coach smiled. “They must be giving you a commission, Austen,” he laughed. “I’m glad, though, you like it. Only, don’t get so used to it that you won’t be able to kick one of our sort. How you getting on, by the way?”

“Oh, pretty fair,” replied Jimmy modestly. “I guess I’m sort of getting the hang of it. Neirsinger and I put in a couple of hours this morning.”

“That’s fine,” said the coach. “Well, let’s get started, Captain Proctor.”

So Jimmy deposited his ball with Jake the trainer, with instructions to guard it with his life, and departed to the field where for the succeeding thirty minutes he trotted about behind Appel in signal drill. The second team proved far less formidable that afternoon and the first walked through its line three times for touchdowns and ran rings around it meanwhile. Rumor had it that Steve Gaston, second team coach, expressed dissatisfaction very strongly to his charges after the day’s work was over. Certain it is that on Wednesday there were several changes in the scrubs’ line-up, changes which resulted in a smaller total of points for the first team, but which did not entirely satisfy the big coach. Gaston had spent two seasons as a second team player, for some not quite explicable reason never reaching the first. Perhaps this was because he knew football just a little better than he could play it. Last season an injury to his leg had laid him off a few days before the end, an injury which seemed at the time inconsequential enough but which had afterwards proved so serious as to bar him from football for two years at least. Had it not been for that injury Gaston would have been this year’s second team captain. As it was, a wise Athletic Committee proffered him the position of coach, and Steve, bitterly resenting the fate which had deprived him of the fierce joys of the game, could have wept with delight. Of course he did nothing of the kind. All he did do was accept with a contained air and earnestly promise to show the committee and the School the best scrub eleven of recent years.

It is frequently easier to promise than to perform, however, and now, in the second week of the term, Steve Gaston was learning as much. He had started, a week since, with a promising lot, many of them veterans from last year, a few old campaigners with two years of service behind them. He had gathered a scanty handful of likely youngsters from last season’s freshman and dormitory teams, youngsters, of course, who for one reason or another were not yet varsity caliber. Falls, an experienced guard, had been made captain, and the second had started off with fair prospects. The difficulty in building up a second team, however, lies in the fact that just as sure as a player shows anything resembling remarkable ability a hawk-eyed first team coach snatches him away. This is likely to happen, too, toward the end of the season, when there is scant time left in which to break in a substitute. But it may happen at any period, and Steve prayed for a team that would be composed of hard, steady workers and that would contain not a single “phenom.”

The start was like most starts. The first team, playing together better, made Steve’s aggregation look very weak and very futile. But that was to be expected. It took time – yes, and patience, too – to weld seasoned, plugging veterans and inexperienced, high-tensioned newcomers into a smoothly-working whole. After a few days the scrubs began to lose some of their rough edges and Steve relaxed a bit.

Thursday brought new frowns of perplexity to his rather rugged and very earnest countenance. The ends were not what they should be, nor did they look to Steve like fellows who could be taught. Then, too, on the other side of center from Captain Falls, the guard position worried him. On Friday he switched a full-back candidate to the guard position and tried young Williams, who had played quarter rather brilliantly on a dormitory eleven last fall, at left end. But the results were not satisfactory. The backfield man lacked the steadiness required of a lineman, and Williams’ performance showed Steve that he was sacrificing a good quarter-back in the securing of a doubtful end. Steve cudgeled his brains and, after supper that Friday night, metaphorically seized his club and set forth on his man-hunt. At a little after nine he arrived at Number 27 Upton.

His prey, attired in a stained and faded old blue flannel dressing gown, his stockinged but slipperless feet supported on his bed, his chair tipped precariously back so that the light from the green-shaded lamp fell over his shoulder, was deep in study. On the other side of the table Stick Patterson sat with head in hands and nose close to his own book. Stick was down to trousers and shirt, for the night was warm. Visitors were infrequent at Number 27, and so when the somewhat imperative knock sounded both occupants looked up startledly. It was Stick who called “Come in!” in a decidedly ungracious tone of voice. Then Steve Gaston entered, big and broad-shouldered and, somehow, momentous looking, and Russell’s chair came down with a crash of its front legs and his dressing-gown was ineffectually drawn together.

“Hello, Gaston,” said Russell, surprised. “What – I mean – Do you know Patterson?”

Steve didn’t and shook hands rather perfunctorily and took the chair that Russell yielded. Russell perched himself on the bed and gathered his scantily covered knees within his arms. He thought now that he knew Gaston’s mission, for he had suddenly recalled the forgotten fact that Gaston had become second team coach. Steve smiled, but it was plainly only a sop to etiquette, or whatever law it is that decrees that a guest must show pleasurable emotion on arrival. So, perhaps, did the Cave Man smile ere he raised his club and smote, subsequent to dragging off his victim. Although Steve didn’t smite, having got that brief smile out of his system he approached his errand with as little delay as his distant progenitor.

“How does it happen you’re not with us this fall, Emerson?” he asked severely.

Russell, who had determined to put on a bold front and be as adamant to all pleas and protestations, secretly quailed a little. There was that about this big, serious-faced youth that made him wish he had not been discovered in dressing-gown and “undies”; his attire, or lack of it, put him at a disadvantage, for it is difficult to do battle, even moral battle, when your unclothed ankles stare up at you from under the frayed hem of a dressing-gown and you are distressingly aware of a large hole in your left sock! Russell had to blink once or twice before he answered, and blinking took time and looked like hesitation and so weakened his cause right at the outset.

“I haven’t time for football this year, Gaston,” he answered finally. “You see, Patterson and I have started a small store – ”

“Yes, I know that,” interrupted Steve impatiently. “I hope you do well, Emerson. But that store won’t take all your time, I guess. We’re up against it for good men this fall and I’d take it as a real favor if you’d give us a hand, old man.”

That phrase “good men” didn’t unduly elate Russell. He knew that Gaston would use it in like circumstances to any fellow he might be after. Still, there was a pleasant sound to it. Russell shook his head, though, and steeled himself.

“I’m afraid it can’t be done. I’d like to, Gaston, but I’m in this store business to make some money, and there’s only Patterson and me to look after it. Patterson tends the place most of the morning, generally, and so I have to be down there afternoons. If it wasn’t for that – ”

“You played end a good deal last year, didn’t you?” Steve asked. Russell felt helplessly that Gaston hadn’t been one bit impressed by what he had told him. Russell nodded dolefully.

“Quite a bit,” he conceded.

“Thought so. We need you, Emerson. Got a place ready and waiting for you. Fact is, I want to make this year’s second something the School will remember and talk about for the next ten years. I want to turn out a rip-snorting bunch of fellows that’ll make the first team sit up and take notice. You’ve got to have a good scrub team if you’re going to have a good first, Emerson. You can’t train a first team against a lot of easy-marks and then beat Kenly. No, sir, you’ve got to have something hard to go up against, and the better your second team is the better your first will be. Well, I mean to give the school a great second, Emerson, and that’s why I’m after you; you, and a couple of others who have been playing possum. I want all the good stuff I can get hold of, and, believe me, I’m going to get it!”

“Yes, of course,” answered Russell uneasily, glancing toward his room-mate for assistance. Stick, however, was pretending to study, and Russell saw that he must expect no help from that quarter. He went on more firmly. “I wish I could help you, Gaston – ”

“Oh, not me, Emerson! Never mind about me! It’s the School you’re going to help, you see. Keep that thought in your mind, son. You can’t turn down the School, can you?”

“Why, no, but – ”

“When a fellow can play football, Emerson, he’s got a duty to the School, and you don’t need to be told that. Fellows like you don’t hesitate at a sacrifice when the good of Alton is at stake. And you’ve been here long enough to know that a fellow who goes out and does his best on the second is doing just as much for the success of the big team as he would be doing if he played on the first instead.” Gaston was horribly earnest, and his brown eyes bored Russell’s implacably. Russell stirred uncomfortably.

“Well, but, you see how I’m fixed, Gaston,” he said pleadingly. “I – we’ve put quite a little money in this thing, and we can’t afford to lose it. Fact is, between you and me, we – the store hasn’t got started very well yet, and it wouldn’t do at all to get careless about it. Now, if – ”

“No, indeed,” agreed Steve quite heartily. “Naturally, you want to make it go. I don’t blame you. I’d see what arrangement I could make, Emerson.” He glanced at Stick. “I dare say Patterson can fix it somehow to take charge in the afternoon long enough for you to get in some work. A couple of hours would do. Patterson would be doing his part, too, that way. Every fellow wants the team to win, of course, and is willing enough to do what he can.”

Patterson looked over and scowled. “That’s all right, Gaston, but I can’t tend that shop morning and afternoon both. I’ve got recitations and things. Seems to me there must be plenty of chaps for your team without Rus!”

“Got to have him, Patterson.” Steve arose smiling calmly but inexorably. “You fellows fix it up between you. You can do it better without me, so I’ll be going along. I’m grateful to you, Emerson, for doing what you’re going to do, even if, as I’ve said, it isn’t as a favor to me. And the School doesn’t miss these things either. Well, I’ll look for you Monday, old man, and I’ll give you a chance to be mighty useful. Good night. Good night, Patterson.”

“Night,” replied Stick morosely.

“Good night,” said Russell. “You – you mustn’t count on me, though, Gaston. I’ll think it over and if there’s any possible way – ”

“Sure! I understand. That’s the way to talk.” Steve paused in the open door and smiled back appreciatively. “Monday at three-thirty, then!”

When the door had closed Russell stared blankly across at Stick and Stick scowled darkly back at Russell.

“A nice mess you’ve made of it,” growled Stick disgustedly.