The comedy was half finished and Dick tried hard to put his thoughts on the humours of it but met with scant success. He blamed Stanley for breaking his promise and telling Blash about that article in the Leonardville _Sentinel_ and about Sumner White’s letter. For of course he had told Blash. Otherwise, how could Blash have known and have concocted that horrible joke? Gradually resentment against Blash--and Rusty, too, since it was apparent that Rusty had known beforehand--waned, for, after all, it was nothing to get angry about. Blash had merely paid him back in his own coin, a little more cleverly. Dick even found heart to grin once in the darkness and to wonder how Blash had managed to persuade the movie manager to present the ridiculous thing! But Stanley--Dick scowled. He wouldn’t forgive Stan very soon! Of course he wouldn’t hear the last of it for a long time. Evidently Parkinson fellows were scattered freely through the house and every one of them would return to school with a hilarious version of the incident. Well, that didn’t matter. A fellow had to take jokes as well as perpetrate them, and after awhile it would be forgotten. But Stanley had no business to tell. Dick was firm as to that. When the feature picture came on Dick had recovered his equanimity and was able to enjoy it, although he took pleasure in letting Blash and Rusty remain in ignorance of his forgiveness. Afterwards, going out, he had to play the good sport and meet the laughing gibes of acquaintances with smiling unconcern, but he was glad when they were in the less brilliant stretch of School Street. He purposely avoided Stanley and chose Blash as his companion on the way back to school. Blash was inclined to be apologetic and remorseful. “Maybe it wasn’t so pesky smart, after all, Dick,” he said. “I didn’t think about the other fellows being there. I’m afraid you’ll get a lot of ragging.” “Oh, I don’t mind,” answered Dick. “You had to when we sprung that one on you, you know. But how the dickens did you work it, Blash? Honest, I thought I was seeing things when they flashed that rot on the screen! Thought my--my mind had given way or something! And I didn’t get onto it for ages; not until I saw you trying not to explode! How’d you work it?” “It wasn’t hard,” said Blash with restored complacency. “I just told the fellow who runs the theatre, McCready, a very decent sort of chap, that I wanted to spring a harmless joke on one of the fellows. Let him in on it enough so’s he’d appreciate the stunt. Then I slipped a couple of dollars to the guy who operates the machine up there and he faked up the title and got hold of an old film showing an outdoor meeting of operatives at some shoe factory or something during a Fourth of July celebration. And, gee, it went great, didn’t it? That is, it did if you’re sure you’re not huffed about it, Dick. There’s no fun in a joke that goes sour, though!”