Skippy Bedelle Part 19

The Doctor considered. He was a just man and his sense of humor allowed him to distinguish between the vicious and the playful imagination.

After long, agonizing moments for Skippy waiting at the window, he took a sudden decision.

"Bedelle?"

"Yes, sir."

"If I let you remain at Lawrenceville, will you give me a promise--that so long as you remain here, you won't attempt to invent anything else?"

"So long as I'm in the school?" said Skippy, broken-hearted.

"Absolutely. It's that or expulsion. I have four hundred tender lives to protect. Well?"

"I swear," said Skippy, with tears in his eyes.

The Doctor bit hard and said:

"Then I shall overlook this. Your record is in your favor. I shall overlook this. I have your word of honor, Bedelle. Good night."

Skippy drew a long breath and went hurriedly back to the Kennedy. But there he halted. The smell was awful and the comments which reached him through the open windows were not at all rea.s.suring.

"I think--I think perhaps it's warm enough outside," he said, heavy-hearted.

For two more years he had solemnly sworn to refrain from inventing, and Skippy was a man of his word. No matter, there was this consolation: Mosquito-Proof Socks would some day be a reality; butyl mercaptan had proved its worth at the first test. He would devote himself to a scientific preparation. He was young. With twice ninety-two million legs to be protected with six pairs of socks or stockings a year, he could afford to wait.

"Before I'm thirty, I'll be a millionaire," he said defiantly. "I'll own race horses and yachts and boxes at the opera and I'll marry--" Here he hesitated and the figure of Lillian Russell somehow became confused with a new apparition. Something that was and was not Miss Virginia Dabtree, but most certainly wore silver stockings, which it would be his duty and privilege to protect. "Well, anyhow, she'll drive a four-in-hand and wear pearls for breakfast," he concluded, and, whistling, he went down to dream out the night in the baseball cage.

CHAPTER XVII

SOAP AND SENTIMENT

TEN days after the dreadful fiasco of the Mosquito-Proof Socks, when a corps of experts had succeeded in removing the stench from the upper floors of the Kennedy; when certain garments had been taken out under a vigilantes committee and had been publicly interred; when the three offenders had again been permitted to resume their membership in civilized society--Snorky Green began to be alarmed at certain disquieting symptoms in the conduct of Skippy Bedelle.

"I don't like it," he said, standing before his roommate's washstand in a dark reverie. "Danged if I like the looks of things. Somethin' is certainly doing. It certainly is."

He picked up a large new nailbrush, showed it to Dennis de Brian de Boru, who had been called in consultation, and shook his head.

"Spending his money on bric-a-brac like that--and that's not all!" he said indignantly.

"Let me know the worst," said Dennis who, perched on the table tailor fashion, had been ruminating, and when Dennis de Brian de Boru remained silent, the mental wheels were grinding rapidly. "Fire away, if you want to know anything--ask me."

Snorky proceeded to lift the broken cover of the soap dish, and brought forth a cake which he tendered gingerly to Dennis for his olfactory inspection.

"What a lovely pink stink!" he exclaimed, after one sniff. "Smells like the cook on her Sunday off."

"Are you convinced?"

"I am. Skippy, the human scent-box is undoubtedly in love. Object matrimony."

"He's got it bad this time," said Snorky, remembering that they had a reputation as lady-killers to maintain.

"If you will a.s.sociate with 'em, it's bound to happen," said Finnegan in his rapid fire style. "I know the symptoms. My brother Pat went maudlin, when he was just Skippy's age. Ten years of it, presents Christmas and birthdays, flowers twice a month, postage stamps and letter paper, weekly bulletins and all that sort of rot! Ten years, and then he married a girl, best friend stuff, trust you together and all that--married her a month after he met her. Think of the expense. Not for me, old top--my money goes for race horses."

"You've nothing to worry over, you wild Irishman," said Snorky, who felt a certain presumption in this lesson.

"Casting aspersions? Oh, I don't know! I may not be beautiful, but women, proud women, have sighed as I pa.s.sed."

"Run away," said Snorky impatiently.

"I was just going," said Dennis with dignity. At the door he paused for a parting shot. "Hard luck, old gormandizer. There won't be so many midnight spreads for you, now. Cut down the jiggers, shut up the pantry, tighten the belt! Skippy'll need his money for _other_ things. Thank the Lord the only thing he can get into of mine, is a necktie. Hard luck!"

Perhaps a little of the practical reactions had occurred to Snorky, for he flung a shoe at the diminutive Finnegan and was still in a brown study when Skippy came in.

"If he starts to wash he's in love. Bet that's why he's been so friendly," he thought, waiting developments. "I thought it was queer he didn't sulk more after the big smell!"

In fact Snorky had been considerably puzzled at his roommate's actions after the fiasco of the Mosquito-Proof Socks.

"Any mail?" said Skippy nervously.

"I don't think so."

"Are you sure?"

"Come to think about it, there might be a letter over on the table."

The Byronic melancholy vanished from Skippy's face. He sprang to the table and seized the envelope.

"Feeling better?" said Snorky, noting the beneficial results.

"Much."

"You look ten years younger."

"You go to blazes!" said Skippy, but without anger. He went to the bed and flinging back the mattress uncovered three pairs of trousers slowly hardening into that razor edge which is the _sine qua non_ of a man of fashion. Apparently satisfied, he next proceeded to the mirror, where, after a short inspection, he seized his brushes, dipped them into the water pitcher and laboriously began to reconstruct the perfect part that was beginning to replace the Skippy cowlick. Trousers may be brought to order in a few minutes, but to subdue a cowlick is a matter of years.

Ten minutes' rigorous application of the brushes failing to produce results, he ducked into the washbasin, drove a line with the comb, slicked down the sides and applied a press, in the form of a derby, which process will subdue the most recalcitrant of cowlicks for at least two hours.

"Aha! Object matrimony?" said a squeaky voice.

Skippy looked up wrathfully to perceive the curious eyes of Dennis de Brian de Boru gazing from the transom. Both brushes went flying across the room, but Dennis knew when his presence was _de trop_. The episode shook off the derby and deranged the part. Snorky watched the process of reconstruction with a meditative glance.

"Skippy, old horse, you are _so_ spick and span. Has love really come to you?"

"You go take a run and jump," said Skippy lightly and he began to whistle a genial air.