"You can't play in my backyard;I don't love you any more."
Whereupon Snorky, having slammed a book on the table, advanced with doubled fists, exclaiming:
"You stop that, do you hear! You stop that or—or—I'll—"
Skippy, whose calm was delightfully reinforced by this show of temper, again, but without looking up, indicated the pad and pencil.
"I can lick you!" said Snorky hoarsely.
This was too much. Skippy sprang up, fistsready, and glowered his defiance. For a long moment they held this bellicose attitude, a collision imminent. But a resort to primitive methods is a serious affair between roommates. Each hesitated, seeking a dignified evasion of the crisis.
"Well, go on with your baby act, if you enjoy it," said Snorky scornfully. "Lord, I'd hate to have your disposition!"
The status quo having been restored, Skippy discarded Cæsar's "Gallic Perplexities" and returned to boyhood's first heroine, while Snorky in a rage retreated to his side of the room and pondered.
"I certainly riled him that time," said Skippy joyfully to himself. "Wonder what he'll do now?"
After a few moments Snorky began to whistle, meditating to himself, which in boyhood is always a signal that the imagination is working.
"What's the big idea now?" said Skippy, following from the corner of his eye.
Snorky rose briskly and, repairing to his closet, disappeared on all fours. A moment later he returned, with a box of large and juicy chocolate éclairs and a bottle of ginger pop, and, establishing himself at the opposite end of the table, began to enjoy himself audibly.
"The low-down hound!" said Skippy, writhing on his seat.
In his calculations, he had completely forgotten the purchase of the afternoon. In turn he rose, delved into the débris of his closet and, returning, spread before his end of the table one tin of deviled turkey (Snorky's favorite), a large piece of American cheese and a bottle of root beer.
It had now become a battle of wits, with each resolved to impress the other with the delicious satisfaction that he was experiencing and each gazing from time to time at a point directly above the other's head. There were six éclairs. Snorky ate four rapidly, licking his fingers with gusto after each.
Then he ate the fifth éclair more slowly and with some effort. Despite all his self-control Skippy's gaze could not turn from that last-surviving member of the chocolate family. He was suffering tortures, but suffering under a calm and smiling exterior.
"Hello!" said Snorky suddenly, talking to himself. "I almost forgot."
He rose and left the room to Skippy and the sixth éclair. Tantalus, amid his parched seeking of a cooling draught, never suffered more anguish than Skippy sitting there before that undefended éclair, with only a gesture intervening.
"Of all the mean, dirty, contemptible tricks!" he said angrily between his teeth, revolting at this most treacherous trap. For he must not,he could not, no matter what the pain he must endure, admit defeat by falling on that éclair. He rose and went to the window. Certainly he had been mistaken in Snorky; no one who would carry a quarrel to such fiendish lengths had the largeness of spirit that he had the right to demand in a chum.
When Snorky returned, he glanced in some surprise at the untouched éclair. Then he lifted it gingerly, examined it closely to see if it contained any foreign corrupting matter, and, his appetite restored by the lapse of time, ate it with smacking relish.
Skippy, crouched in his chair, ground his teeth and tried to shut out the tantalizing sounds. Snorky began to hum gaily to himself. Then, proceeding across the direct line of his roommate's vision, he took up the latest photograph and contemplated it with a little exaggerated rapture. It was the last straw. Skippy's rage burst forth in a loud and insulting guffaw.
"Ha, ha!"
Snorky, to whom the advantage of the situation was now apparent, took up each photograph in turn and smiled with the pardonable pride of one who knows his own worth.
The next moment two books went flying across the room, and Skippy, now thoroughly infuriated, stood before him, arms akimbo, a sneer on his disgusted lips.
"Don't let me stop you. Go on, kiss it, fondle it. Put it under your pillow and hug it, you great big mooncalf! Say, why do you come to Lawrenceville, anyhow? Why don't you go to Ogontz or Dobbs Ferry?"
Then Snorky, tasting the sweets of revenge, went to the table and, picking up the pad and pencil, presented them to Skippy with a mocking bow.
Skippy's reply is not to be found even in the most up-to-date dictionaries. Furious at his roommate, the world in general, and himself most of all, he shed his clothes and dived into bed.
"Girls—faugh!" he exclaimed in disgust And, pulling the covers over his head, he retired to his own ruminations.
TO understand what Skippy felt one must have known the springs of boyhood's impulse towards perfect manhood.
To Skippy a man was that completed being, who wore trousers that never bagged at the knees, neckties that never slipped below the collar button, who displayed a gold watch-chain across a fancy vest, from whose lower lip a cigarette was pendent, who possessed a latchkey and the right to read far into the night, and who shaved once a day. The sentimental complications had escaped him. Whatever attracted man to the frizzled, giggling, smirking, smiling bipeds in shirts remained a mystery to Skippy.
All at once he had to face this problem. He had gone resolutely up the steps towards perfect manhood. He had learned the art of pressing trousers to a thin razor-edge from Snorky, who was a year his senior in boarding-school knowledge.
The necktie question was not yet settled, though every morning he subjected his throat to a strangle-hold.
He had bought a razor and twice a week, trembling and apprehensive, drew it across hismaidenly cheek. He slashed himself fearfully but he did not mind that. He wore his scars proudly, a warning to all that adolescence was on him, as the young Heidelberg student flaunts his wounds.
The cigarette (known as the Demon Cigarette, the Filthy Weed, and the Coffin Nail) had been a dreadful struggle. But he had won out.
He loathed the Demon Cigarette as he abhorred tobacco in any form, but he had martyrized himself until he was able to puff up the cold-air flue in the stilly reaches of the night without having to grope his way back to the bed and watch the room careen about him. He did not inhale, but he had learned to imitate the process so as to defy detection, as he exclaimed:
"Gee! It's good to fill the old lungs, isn't it?"
These things, by dint of concentration and courage, Skippy had achieved, not to stand ashamed in the eyes of his roommate. And, having with pain and perseverance traveled this far, he suddenly, this night, realized how much was still lacking.
Yes, there was certainly something lacking in his progress towards perfect manhood, something that Snorky had and he had not.
It was all very well to be a man, to smoke, to shave, and to have acquired the sartorial evidence.This was all very well—but others must perceive it, too! This was the point. As Snorky had done, he must do.
The new world to conquer was the feminine heart.
Now, Skippy had not at this moment the slightest inclination towards the lovelier sex.
He did not aspire to be a Don Juan or a Beau Brummel, but if he were to continue to room with Snorky Green he must acquire at least the appearance. He perceived this. It pained him that in the scheme of things it should be so—but a reputation he must have.
"Girls, girls! Lord, how I loathe them!" he said in a last farewell to his male independence. "What I think of a fellow who hangs around them, wears their rings and pins and carries off their handkerchiefs! But I'll be danged if I can stand any more of this conquering-hero stuff from that eyesore across the room! If it's got to be done, you bet I'll do it! I'll put it over that four-flusher, if I have to fuss every girl in Scranton!"
THE Easter vacation was ended and four hundred overfed, underslept boys had returned to spread the germs of measles, mumps and tonsilitis among their fellows. Skippy and Snorky, having fallen hilariously into each other's arms, were proceeding with the important ceremony of the unpacking, while surveying each other with a critical eye.
"Seems to me you look quite spruced up," said Snorky when, to be more at his ease, Skippy had shed his coat and stood revealed in all the splendor of a flaming-yellow buckskin vest, with gleaming brass buttons; then noting the display of jewelry in the red and yellow tie, he added: "Where did you get the fancy stuff?"
Skippy removed his scarf-pin and gazed languidly at the delicate garland of forget-me-nots. Then he yawned and said:
"I'll tell you about her some day."
Snorky sat down on his best derby. "My aunt's cat's pants! Have I lived to see it?"
"See what?" said Skippy loftily.
"You a fusser! Skippy Bedelle wearing a girl's pin! Fan me quick!"
"Just because I haven't boasted about my conquests—" said Skippy, and he brought forth a little bundle carefully wrapped in a greenbandanahandkerchief.
"What's that?" said Snorky faintly.
From beneath the protecting folds of the handkerchief appeared a white satin frame with hand-painted violets rampant. Out of the violets gazed an adoring pair of eyes.
"Is that her?" said Snorky.
"Lord, no! This is only Margot," said Skippy, who inhaled the fragrance and offered the same opportunity to his chum. "Rather delicate, eh, what?"
"Smells like patchouli," said Snorky, beginning to recover.
"Patchouli? Margot? Say, what kind of females do you play around with? My girls drive their own four-in-hands and wear pearls for breakfast."
"Oh, ex-cuse me!" said Snorky with a mocking courtesy.
Skippy brought forth a second photograph and placed it on the bureau, and then a third. Snorky, who had begun to sulk, feigned indifference and proceeded to rangehistrophies on the bureau.
"This'll cheer up the window seat a bit," said Skippy in the same casual tone.
Snorky's head appeared above the trunk long enough to watch Skippy with his arms full ofpillows, lace and sweet-scented, scatter them with a nonchalant gesture. But when, continuing his manœuvres, Skippy in the new revelation produced three banners emblazoned with the insignia of feminine schools, Snorky capitulated to his curiosity and, advancing to the bureau, stood in open-mouthed wonder.
"I'll be jiggswiggered! Holy cats and Aunt Jemima! I never would have believed it!"
Skippy brought out a fan, spread it, and pinned it affectionately above the photograph gallery.
"I guess that'll hold him," he said to himself. "Poor old Snorky! I hope his heart is strong enough."
"Been doing quite a bit of fussing yourself," said Snorky with a new respect. "Why didn't you ever tell a fellow?"
"I never discuss women," said Skippy, dusting off the fourth photograph.
"You must have gone the pace," said Snorky in wonder.
"Oh, I looked them over quite a bit."
"But, my lord, Skippy! You can't have loved all of them!"
"Just collecting souvenirs."
As a crowning touch, a climax long imagined, plotted and hilariously enjoyed in prospect, he next produced, before the bewildered eyes of Snorky Green, what in school-day parlance isknown as a Trophy of Trophies; an incredible, amazing, inexplicable thing, a tasseled, beribboned, pink and white bed cap! Snorky made a feeble gesture or two and then lay down to signify that the shock had killed him.
"Skippy! What does that mean?"
"This also is a thing I cannot discuss," said Skippy, whose fondest imaginings were outdone by reality.
"Any more?" said Snorky, struggling weakly upward.
"That's all," said Skippy, who was gazing contentedly at the imposing collection. But all at once he reflected: "Hello, where in the deuce did I put her?"
He pretended to search through his trunk and valise in great concern until, Snorky's curiosity having been properly awakened, he suddenly struck his forehead.
"Of course. How silly of me!"
And diving into his inner pocket he brought forth a last tribute, encased in neat pink morocco, which he arranged in the unmistakable position of honor.
Snorky approached on tenterhooks. The next moment he burst out: "Mimi!"
"What, you know her!" said Skippy, surprised in turn. "Rather cute little thing."
"Look!"
On Snorky's bureau in the same place of honor was an identical photograph, a little Japanesebrunette, with a descending puff and an ascending nose. They stood staring at each other, and the temperature of the room seemed to recede towards the freezing point.
"When did you meet her? How long have you known her, and how the deuce did you get her photo?" said Snorky, with blazing eyes.
Skippy was in a quandary. A false step might tumble about him the glorious fabric of his new reputation. He went to his bureau and thoughtfully considered the pink morocco case stolen from his sister's collection. Revenge had been sweet, yet the impulse was still on him. He decided that a quick conquest would be the more galling to a rival's pride.
"Oh, we waltzed about a bit, but I gave her an awful rush."
Snorky went and sat down in a corner, elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. Seeing thus the wreck he had caused, Skippy began to be troubled by his conscience. Suppose it really was a serious affair. Wouldn't it be nobler to surrender the fictitious conquest to his beloved friend, to adopt a sacrificial attitude and allow Snorky to go in and win her?
"I say, old boy, I'm awfully sorry; do you really care?"
"For Mimi Lafontaine? For a girl that can't tell a man from a cabbage? Ha, ha!"
All kindly feelings vanished.
"What's the good of calling yourself names?" said Skippy crushingly. He picked up the photograph and smiled at it. "Mimi is a flirt, but she has her good points."
"Look here!" said Snorky, rising in sudden fury. "There's one question has got to be answered right now."
"And pray what is that?" said Skippy, resting one elbow on the top of the bed and crossing his legs to show his perfect calm.
Snorky planted himself before the bureau and extended his hand in a furious gesture towards the lace bed cap that now adorned the top.
"Does or does notthatbelong to Miss Lafontaine?"
"Any one who would lower himself to ask such a question," said Skippy, still in a stage attitude, "does not deserve my sympathy. I would have given her up. Now I shall keep her."
"Oh, you think she cares for you, you chump?"
"I do not discuss women."
The gauntlet had been thrown down and the demon of jealousy took up his abode with theménageBedelle and Green. For a week the comedy continued, while conversation was reduced to a minimum and transmitted in writing along the lines of Skippy's imagining. Each watched the other's correspondence with ajealous eye. Whenever Skippy received a letter from home, he ostensibly hugged it to his shirt-front and, repairing to a corner, read it furtively with the pink morocco case before him. Afterward he would execute a double shuffle across the room, whistle a hilarious strain, and give every facial contortion which could express a lover's joy, while Snorky squirmed and scowled and pretended not to notice. Snorky in turn retaliated by writing long letters after hours by the light of a single candle, ruffling up his hair and breathing audibly. In the morning Skippy, passing towards the washstand, would see on the table a swollen envelope, addressed:
Miss Mimi Lafontaine,Farmington,Conn.
These letters troubled him. When a fellow could write over four pages it certainly must be serious, and these looked as though they held forty. The trouble was that Skippy had begun to believe in his own passion. The little Japanese brunette had become a reality to him. He had talked with her, walked with her, received the avowal of her own uncontrollable impulse towards him. In fact, at times he almost believed that he had actually held her in his arms and whirled in the dizzy intoxication of the waltzes he had announced. He even was able to feel a real pang of jealousy, a fierce andcontending antagonism against Snorky, who actually knew her. Such a situation was of course fraught with too many explosive possibilities to long endure. Fortunately Fate stepped in and preserved the friendship.
A WEEK after these events, returning on a Saturday morning from the last vexations of the curriculum with the expectant thrill of the opening of the baseball season, Skippy was amazed to receive, by the hands of Klondike, the colored sweep, a scribbled note in the familiar handwriting of his sister:
Dear Jack:Miss Green and I and a party of girls are down for the game. We're at the Lodge. Come right over and bring Arthur.Sis.
Miss Green and I and a party of girls are down for the game. We're at the Lodge. Come right over and bring Arthur.
Sis.
His first emotion was one of horror; had they been up to the room, and was his duplicity forever at the mercy of a sister's gibes? Klondike reassured him. He bounded upstairs, made a hasty survey, found everything in order, and hastily departed for the Lodge, after a quick plunge into the glorious buckskin vest, a struggle into a clean collar and a hurried dusting off of his shoes against the window seat. He reached the parlors of the Lodge on the heels of Snorky Green, who, being as thoroughly bored by the prospect as he, forgot the week's feud in a common misery.
"Gee! Aren't sisters the limit?"
"Well, we're in for it."
"Let's hope they clear out before dinner."
The next moment Skippy was perfunctorily pecking at the cheek of Miss Clara Bedelle and pretending to be overjoyed at the prospect of parading before the assembled school with six young ladies in tow. Then he looked up and something like a cataleptic fit went through his body.
Directly in front of him, evidently waiting for the introduction, was unmistakably Miss Mimi Lafontaine! He looked at Snorky and saw the same expression of horror over his pudgy features, as he came up, knees shaking, to be introduced in turn.
Then to Snorky's distressed soul came the welcome sound:
"Jack, dear, I want you to meet Mimi—Miss Lafontaine."
To the amazement of sisters and friends, said Snorky, advancing with outstretched hand:
"Hello, you old Skippy!"
Skippy clung to it as to a spar in midstream.
"Snorky, old dear—it's all right."
"It is?"
"You bet it is!"
"What are you idiotic boys doing?" said Sister Green.
"Shall we tell?" asked Snorky roguishly.
"Women have no sense of humor," said Skippy, grinning with a great easement of the soul.
At this moment they rose above the vexations of the female intrusion. They looked at each other and each comprehended the other. They were equals, equal in imagination, in audacity and expedient. This mutual revelation cleared away all past misunderstanding and jealousies. The sense of humor was triumphant. They loved each other.
A half-hour later, having, to the utter amazement of sister No. 1 and sister No. 2, rolled hilariously, arms locked, across the campus, they lay on opposite beds, struggling weakly to master the pangs of laughter which smote them like the colic.
"Are we going to tell our real names?" said Skippy at last.
"Let's."
"You know, Bo, you certainly had me going—you certainly did. And all these months, too! Snorky, I bow before you."
"Allow me," said Snorky admiringly.
"Say! You're all right, but honest now," said Skippy, pointing to Snorky's bureau and the feminine galaxy, "honest, who are they?"
"Well, of course one's my sister," said Snorky, grinning. "I swiped these three and I bought the other with the frame. Say, I'm not worried about how you got yours, but what I'd like to know is, who in tarnation belongs to that boudoir cap?"
"My grandmother, and she's a corker, too!"
They clasped hands and Snorky announced solemnly:
"Skippy, old fellow, let 'em have all their old skirts; there's nothing like the real thing, the man-to-man stuff, is there?"
"You bet there isn't."
"And say, I'm sorry about that souvenir toothbrush, honest I am, and I think you're a wonder, I do."
"Oh, that's all right. That's all right," said Skippy, embarrassed. "There's a lot of money in it, but I guess I prefer to make my pile in other ways."
NOW that the Snorky-Skippy friendship had been placed on the firm rock of mutual revelation and all unfounded jealousies swept away by frank confession, Skippy's imagination returned to the real purpose of life. He was a little ashamed of the time wasted on the opposite sex, even if for a worthy purpose. Such frailties were all very well for Shrimp Davis and the Triumphant Egghead, who had legs educated for the ballroom, but he, John C. Bedelle, had other missions to perform in this life which held such short years for a man of imagination.
For several days he sought diligently among the needs of human nature for something on the grand scale. He tried his hand at a perpetual-motion machine. He thought out a combination submarine and airship which would put the navies of the world at the mercy of his country. He even descended to such trivial abstractions as a Reversible Shirt-Front, which took its due place in the book of inventions under the following entry:
REVERSIBLE SHIRT-FRONT
Argument: Admitted that Reversible Shirt-Fronts are easy to manufacture; what demand would therebe for them? Could they be popularized among the working classes? Treat cuffs same way.
Argument: Admitted that Reversible Shirt-Fronts are easy to manufacture; what demand would therebe for them? Could they be popularized among the working classes? Treat cuffs same way.
For certain reasons he decided not to discuss this last invention with Snorky Green. These tentative efforts were but exercising his imagination. He knew it and waited breathlessly.
But at last, a month after the failure of the Foot-Regulator, the long-awaited thrill arrived, the thrill which comes only with the possession of a Universal Idea, and for the first time in his long, untroubled fifteen years, it arrived in conjunction with the intrusion into his still simple scheme of things of that arch-disturber—woman.
Miss Virginia Dabtree was not destined to occupy the proud place of the first love, though Miss Dabtree (who was Snorky Green's aunt) was eminently equipped for such a position, being eighteen years his senior and at an age when by instinct, habit, and a need of self-encouragement, any tribute from the opposite sex, no matter how given, caused her not the slightest irritation.
Skippy, however, was too completely dazzled by the consummate artistry of Miss Dabtree's clinging toilettes, the built-up luxuriousness of her hair, the pink and white complexion, the stenciled eyebrows, and the Lady Vere de Vere attitudes to dare to entertain a personal hope.
He was dazzled, dumfounded! A new world opened to him. Through her at last he perceivedwoman, her place in the now more complex scheme of things, the influence she could exert, the stimulus to the imagination, and the answer to his need of some guiding purpose.
True, Miss Dabtree's age was her protection. She was removed from even the flights of his imagination, yet the influence she exerted all unwittingly over his life was inestimable. For it was for her, to protect her, that he, Skippy Bedelle, conceived his magnum opus, the Mosquito-Proof Socks.
The hour was eight, the day Sunday, the time the first clear week in June. They sat together on the porch of the Kennedy, listening to the sound of the Upper House singing rising clearly above the twang of banjos across the campus from the esplanade.
The long twilight had set in, yet the afterglow hung brilliantly about them. Skippy was balanced gingerly on the front edge of a rocker which swayed perilously under him and added to his general discomfort. There was a safe straight-backed stationary chair only ten feet away, but to save his life he could think of no legitimate excuse for rising and possessing it. If he leaned back the sharp upright collar, borrowed from Dennis de Brian de Boru Finnegan, cut cruelly into his chin, and when he craned forward the red choker tie (restored by Snorky in addition to the agate cuff buttons) bulgedforth in the most disconcerting and unimpressive luxuriance.
"You've known Snorky, that is, Arthur, a long time, haven't you?" he said desperately, breathing hard.
"Why, you funny boy! I'm his aunt," said Miss Dabtree, laughing.
"Oh, yes!" He felt he had offended her mortally, so to repair his social blunder he said point-blank: "Gee! Some fellows are born lucky!"
"Now that is sweet of you," she said, giving him the full effect of her heavenly smile. "But I'm afraid you're a terrible flatterer."
"Shall I tell her about the Foot Regulator?" thought Skippy, who felt the need of confiding his life's ambition.
But at this moment Destiny arrived in the shape of a mosquito that registered its coming on one of Skippy's open-work socks. Skippy shook his foot uneasily, just enough to disturb the intruder but not enough to attract Miss Dabtree's attention. The mosquito transferred its operations to the other sock. Skippy, in order to conceal his predicament, slowly crossed his legs and then hastily uncrossed them, not being quite sure of the etiquette of such a position.
The mosquito, pursuing its way, lighted on the graceful silver-sheened stocking which Skippy had been contemplating furtively for the last ten minutes with a sudden realizationthat the feminine ankle has certain strange sentimental values utterly different from those for which his and Snorky Green's were created.
"Good gracious!" cried Miss Dabtree with an impetuous lunge towards the point of attack. Page 78"Good gracious!" cried Miss Dabtree with an impetuous lunge towards the point of attack. Page 78
But immediately a terrible dilemma arose. How was he to act? In another moment the beautiful creature so perfumingly close to him would notice the intruder, might even retreat before the menace of more mosquitoes, and the rapturous twilight opportunity for opening his confidence would pass forever. His instinct was all to protect her. But how? To slap at the insect with his cap or his hand was unthinkable. He found himself blushing at the very thought! Yet how to warn her without acknowledging that his attention had been concentrated on the lower graceful silhouette? He might offend her irreparably. Even if he exclaimed, "Look out, there's a 'skeeter,'" what would he answer if she in her innocence should ask, "Where?"
As he debated this, hot and cold, the inevitable happened.
"Good gracious!" cried Miss Dabtree with an impetuous lunge towards the point of attack, which made Skippy modestly avert his gaze. "This place is filled with mosquitoes. We never can sit here!"
She rose and led the way to the parlor.
"Won't you come and wait for Arthur?"
"Thanks, thanks awfully; much obliged," said Skippy, gulping down his disappointment.He tripped against the foot-scraper and made a mess of opening the door for her. He wanted above all things in the world to follow her in and be permitted just for a few more wonderful minutes to sit and gaze at her loveliness. But to admit this was impossible. Whatever happened, she must never suspect, never! So at loss for an excuse he stammered, "I'd love to, but really I ought to get back for study hour."
A moment later, having backed and scraped down the steps and thanked her profusely for some indefinite thing for which she ought to be thanked, he went rushing around the corner, let himself in by King Lentz's window, and surreptitiously gained his room. At last, having torn off the red choker tie and freed his neck, back once more to the ease of bachelor attire, he returned wrathfully to the pest which had perhaps saved him from his first sentimental excursion.
Sunk in a cushioned armchair, his slippered feet on the desk, a bottle of cooling ginger pop in one hand and a cream puff in the other, he placed before his imagination the problem:
"Why the mosquito?"
The more he pondered the more he became impressed with the fact that here indubitably was one of the errors of the Almighty. Snakes destroyed rats and mice at least, but what earthly purpose was served by mosquitoes?
He knew, as all smatterings of outer informationreached him via the weekly lecture course, that besides being a stinging annoyance to the human race, the mosquito was a breeder of plagues and had to be fought in southern climes. Having wrathfully considered his subject and come to the conclusion that no mitigating circumstances could exist, he next put to himself this problem:
"If the mosquito cannot be exterminated, can it be neutralized? If so, how?"
When Snorky Green, to whom Miss Dabtree was more aunt than woman, came bursting in an hour later, with the rebellious consciousness of having thoroughly earned the five-dollar bill which lay in the safest of pockets, he stopped short at the sight of his roommate in that reclining concentration which Sherlock Holmes has popularized, the briar pipe being replaced by a large pencil, on which Skippy was chewing in heavy meditation.
"I say, Skippy, the old girl certainly came up handsome!" said Snorky gleefully, searching for the bill.
"Sh—sh!" said Skippy without turning.
"What the deuce?"
"I want to think."
"Danged if he isn't inventing something else!" said Snorky, who went on tiptoe to a position where he could study the frowning outward signs of the mental disturbances which were undoubtedly working inwardly. At theend of a silent hour, Skippy condescended to relax.
"Well!" said Snorky excitedly.
Skippy rose with dignity and went to the window, gazing out a moment into the darkling night where unknown myriads of mosquitoes lurked all unconscious of the doom impending over them.
"I say, Skippy, what's the big idea?"
"It's big—bigger than anything you ever imagined," said Skippy impressively.
"Aren't you going to tell a fellow!"
"Perhaps."
Now Snorky was not without a certain knowledge of human nature, particularly Skippy-nature, so without further interest he proceeded to disrobe, flipping the five-dollar bill on the table with a rakish gesture and saying carelessly:
"The old gal has a heart, anyhow. However, ta-ta for the night."
Five minutes later Skippy spoke from the depths of his bed.
"Snorky, I'll tell you this much."
There was a convulsion among the opposite sheets and Snorky sat up.
"Go on, I'm listening!"
"It's bigger than bathtubs."
"You don't say so!"
"Snorky, it's—"
"It's what?"
"It's mosquitoes!"
Accustomed as Snorky had become to the young inventor's cryptic methods, his imagination refused to follow.
"You don't see?"
"How the deuce should I see?"
"Snorky, I'm going to put the mosquito out of business!"
"How in tarnation!"
"When I get through with him," said Skippy loftily, "when my plans are perfected—he'll starve to death!"
"Oh, say! Skippy, is that all you're going to tell me?"
"That is all for to-night," said Skippy, who, seizing a slipper, flung it across the room at the evening's candle after the methods introduced by the lamented Hickey Hicks, and plunged the room into darkness.
IF close association had brought to Snorky a canny knowledge of his roommate's need of unbosoming himself of a great idea, it had also acquainted Skippy with the profit to be derived from Snorky's overwhelming curiosity, particularly when there were any symptoms of ready cash.
The next afternoon, therefore, without being unduly surprised, he accepted an invitation to accompany Mr. Snorky Green to the home of the Conovers up the road, where the record for pancakes at one continuous sitting stood at forty-nine to the honor (without challengers) of the Hon. Hungry Smeed.
Somewhere between the fourteenth and fifteenth pancake, having solicitously offered the maple syrup, Snorky said casually:
"That's a jim-dandy idea of yours, old horse, about mosquitoes."
"I'm looking at it from all sides."
This answer did not satisfy Snorky Green's thirst for information, so he said encouragingly:
"It's a great idea. You must."
"Heard of Luther Burbank and what he does with plants?"
"Sure, that was in last week's lecture. Seedless fruit and all that sort of thing."
"Snorky," said Skippy meditatively, "who knows but some day a scientist will cross the mosquito with a butterfly?"
"What good'll that do?"
"It would take the sting out of the mosquito, wouldn't it?"
"Suppose it put it into the butterfly."
"If you're going to be facetious—" said Skippy, who, being sufficiently fed, rose with dignity, glad of the opportunity to postpone the discussion to another appetizing sitting.
For a week Snorky Green, greatly impressed by the concentrated moodiness of his chum's attitude, artfully fed him with pancakes, éclairs, Turkish paste, and late at night tempted him with deviled chicken and saltines to be washed down with ginger pop and root beer.
Skippy, having calculated nicely the possibilities of the exchequer, threw out progressively dark, mysterious hints that fed Snorky's curiosity, without any open gift of his confidence. Even Doc Macnooder, aware by all outward signs that the imagination which had conceived of the Foot Regulator was again fermenting, had laid his arm about his shoulders and led him to the Jigger Shop.
But the Skippy Bedelle, who had assumed the trials and tribulations of manhood, hadprofited by the first disillusionments. The trusting, childlike faith was gone forever and in his new, skeptical attitude towards human nature—Toots Cortrelle excepted—he had determined to part with as few millions as possible.
"I say, Skippy, how's it working out?" said Snorky at elevenp.m., producing the crackers and cheese, after having blinded the windows and hung a blanket over the telltale cracks of the door.
"Fine!"
"Is that all you're going to tell me?" said Snorky with his hand on the cheese.
"Not yet, but soon," said Skippy, whose appetite always betrayed his caution.
"In that case I serve notice right here I'm through with the financing!"
"The financing!"
"What else do you call it?" said Snorky indignantly, producing the last two quarters from his pocket, and restoring the cheese to its box.
"All that will go down to your credit account," said Skippy in a conciliatory tone. "I'll tell you this much. There's nothing in the butterfly idea—it would take too long."
"Huh! You didn't think I bit on that! Well, how're you going to clean 'em up? They destroy 'em in Cuba with kerosene—I've been reading up. Is it something like that?"
"Destroy them, why destroy them?" said Skippy reprovingly.
"Why not?"
"If you destroy mosquitoes you destroy your income, you poor boob," said Skippy with his superior manner. "Let 'em live—who profits? I do."
Snorky rose and produced the Bible.
"Come on," he said, in a fever of excitement. "I'm ready. Give me the oath."
"You'll take the oath on my own terms!" said Skippy, looking at him fixedly.
"What do you mean, terms?"
"Snorky, it's so big it may take years of investigation, you understand—"
"Sure."
"This time I'm not giving up any fifty-one per cent."
"Let her go!"
"And if any one goes in they go in on a salary!"
"Oho! I see."
"Well?"
"All right, I'll swear," said Snorky, after a brief wrestling between his curiosity and his financial instincts.
"It may be years working out," said Skippy sadly. "Maybe our children will live to see it; but Snorky, some day, I'm telling you, when the idea is perfected, the mosquito is going to starve to death!"
Snorky, without waiting to be prompted, hurriedly took an oath to guard the secret from man woman and child and called down the scourges of Jehovah on his nearest of kin if he should ever prove false.
"Snorky," said Skippy, folding his arms behind him and spreading his legs after the manner ascribed to the famous Corsican, "where do mosquitoes bite you the most?"
"Golly! Where don't they?" said Snorky, who, thus reminded, began to scratch back of his ears.
"Where do they bite where you can't hear them coming?"
"Legs and ankles," said Snorky instantly.
"Bright boy—you're getting closer."
"Danged if I can see it."
"Protect the ankles and the mosquito starves—am I right?"
"Hurry up," said Snorky, who by this time recognized that the first reasoning processes were simply eliminatory.
"That was my problem," said Skippy, frowning impressively. "Here is the answer—this is how it came to me." He went to the bureau and passed his hand into a sock, two fingers projecting through the devastated regions. "What do you call this?"
"That—that's my sock."
"You call 'em hole-proof socks," said Skippy, ignoring the aspersion. "You get it? Youdon't? Suppose we change it, suppose we use the same organization but call it—Mosquito-Proof Socks."
"Mosquito-Proof Socks!" said Snorky in a whisper.
Skippy, satisfied at the staggering effect produced, stood with a smile waiting for the full result.
"But, Skippy, is it—possible?" said Snorky faintly when he had brought his lower jaw back under control.
"That's not the way to look at it," said Skippy impatiently. "Is the idea A No. 1, or is it not?"
"The idea? My aunt's cat's pants—the idea!" said Snorky all in a breath, "Mosquito-Proof Socks! Why, it's—it's—it's—" But here Snorky stopped, nonplussed, having exhausted his supply of adjectives on the Foot Regulator.
"It is!" said Skippy firmly.
"But won't they be too heavy?"
"What the deuce—"
"Why, they'd have to be regular bullet-proof, wouldn't they?"
"Say! What do you think I'm talking about—Tin Socks?"
"Why, I thought—"
"Listen! This is the way you get at it," said Skippy, walking up and down in ponderous concentration but pausing from time to time todip into the cheese. "You begin by looking at it from the point of view of the mosquito. A mosquito has got nerves, hasn't he, just like a horse or a cat or a bullfrog?"
"Sure he has."
"What frightens a mosquito most?"
"Is it a joke?" said Snorkythoughtfully.
"Green—"
"I apologize," said Snorky hastily, and he brought out a bottle of sarsaparilla.
"A horse shies at a bit of paper; a sneeze will scare a cat, won't it? Well, then, what will scare a mosquito—it's all there!"
"Well, whatwillscare a mosquito?" said Snorky, wide-eyed.
"That is the field of investigation," said Skippy in a melancholy voice.
"But you said Mosquito-Proof Socks!"
"I did. Suppose a harsh sound annoys a mosquito; all you've got to do is to suspend a tiny rusty bell—"
"I don't like that," said Snorky instantly.
"Why not?"
"It doesn't sound modest—"
"That is probably not the way," said Skippy, dismissing this objection with a wave of his hand. "I'm thorough, that's all. Supposing there are certain colors that scare him or make him seasick—red and purple or yellow and violet."
"By jingo! Now you're talking."
"Suppose the mosquito has some deadly enemy. Then all you've got to do is to work his picture into the design of the socks."
"Holy cats!"
"Supposin' it's just the sense of smell you get him by—"
"Citronella!" fairly shouted Snorky.
"Hush!" said Skippy, alarmed at the outbreak.
"Citronella!" said Snorky in a whisper.
"You see? Mosquito-Proof Socks is the idea—and there must be fifty ways of working it out."
"Cheese it!" said Snorky, dousing the light at a sound in the hall.
At a point somewhere between the witching hour and the dawn Snorky said in a tentative whisper:
"Hey there, Skippy! Are you awake?"
"What is it?"
"Gosh! Skippy, I can't sleep. It's just steaming around in my brain!"
"M. P. S.?"
"You bet. I can't see anything but them, millions of them!"
"Mosquitoes?"
"No—legs! Holy Jemima! Skippy, have you thought how many legs there are in the world? Why, in the United States alone twice ninety-two million. Think of it! And what'llthey average in socks and stockings? I've been trying to work it out all night. Gee! My head's just cracking. If you multiply twice ninety-two million by seven pair of socks or even six—"
"Don't!" said Skippy angrily, and he thought to himself, "Thinking of money, thinking of money! How mercenary he is!"
"Standard Oil is nowhere," said Snorky feverishly.
"Don't I know it!"
"Oil'll run out but there'll always be mosquitoes and legs!"
"Darn you, Snorky! Shut up and let me sleep!"
But how was he to sleep with the vision that Snorky's avaricious imagination held out to him? All night long he tossed about restlessly, wandering in a forest of legs; white ones and red ones, black ones and yellow ones, tall ones and short ones, fat, thin, bow-legged and crooked, all the legs in the world waiting for him to rise up and protect them!
The next morning it was worse. All his imagination, suddenly diverted from the exact scientific contemplation, was halted before the stupendous contemplation of future profits.
"Snorky Green is a bad influence," he said moodily as he trudged out heavy-headed from morning chapel. Do what he might, the contamination spread. With all the long fatigueof patient investigation he knew was ahead, his mind leaped over the present and galloped into the future.
"Multiply twice ninety-two million legs by six pair of socks," he found himself repeating. "Oil may run out, but you bet there'll always be mosquitoes and legs."
Yes, it was greater than Standard Oil. It was fabulous to conceive of the wealth that would be his. All at once the John C. Bedelle Gymnasium seemed ludicrously inadequate. He would double the present equipment! There would be a second campus—Bedelle Circle! The school lacked water; he would create a lake for it and the John C. Bedelle Boathouse. . . .
"Bedelle, kindly shine for us. You may translate, John, but be cautious and not too free."
The Roman's mocking voice brought him precipitately to his feet. He opened his book but the passage had escaped him and though he dug Shrimp Bedient savagely in the back, no signal returned.
"Excellent so far, quite exceptionally excellent; nothing to criticize," said the Roman's rising and falling inflection. "Go on."
"Please, sir, I didn't do the advance."
The class roared and the Roman said:
"Too bad, John, too bad! No luck in guessing this morning. We're in the review, John.Too bad! Dreaming again, John? Don't do it, don't do it! The country will take care of itself, without you. Times are hard, John. Another year in the Second Form is a dreadful drain on Father's pocket-book. Sit down, John, and don't dream—don't do it."
Skippy sat down and glared at the Roman.
Some day, some day he would even institute a fund for superannuated teachers, he would! He would come back some day to the school he had made the greatest in the country; he would come as thebenefactorand then the Roman, old, and decrepit in a wheeled chair, would be brought to him, to him, John C. Bedelle, whom as a boy he had held up to the ridicule of the class! What a revenge that would be, the proud and haughty Roman, the greatest flunker of them all, the Roman of the caustic tongue and the all-seeing eye, actually clinging to his hand, stammering out his thanks . . . the Roman whose mocking voice still echoed in his memory, "Don't dream, John, don't do it!"