Instead of speaking, however, Dick turned his face to the screen again, his shoulders shaking. Further along, where Sid sat, there was a faint choking sound. Then Stanley said: “_Oh, boy!_” and fell up against Dick. Again that queer choking sound, then a gurgle, followed by a muffled explosion of laughter from Dick, and Stanley was on his feet, pushing Sid ahead of him, and Dick was following weakly on his heels, and a second after all three were plunging wildly up the darkened aisle. “Ex-excuse me,” muttered Blash. He clutched his cap and wormed his way past a dozen exasperated, protesting members of the audience and pursued his friends. He found them in the lobby outside. Stanley was leaning against the side of the entrance, Sid was draped over a large brass rail, and Dick, midway, was regarding them from streaming eyes, one hand stretched vainly forth for support. The contagion of their laughter had involved doorman and ticket girl, while a small group of loiterers beyond were grinning sympathetically. On this scene appeared Blash. Stanley saw him first and raised one arm and pointed in warning. Dick looked, gave forth a final gasp of laughter and fled on wobbling legs. Sid and Stanley followed and Blash brought up the rear. Down Adams Street in the direction of the railroad station went hares and hound, the hound gaining at every stride. Dick took to the street early in the race, the sidewalk being much too congested for easy progress, and had hair-breadth escapes from cars and vehicles. To him the station came into sight like a haven of refuge, and there he was run to earth in a dim corner of the waiting-room. When Stanley and Sid reached the scene, outdistanced by Blash, Dick was lying on a bench and Blash was sitting on him in triumph. “Apologise!” panted Blash. “Say you’re sorry!” “I--I----” gurgled Dick. “Say it, you lobster!” “’Pologise!” grunted the under dog. “Sorry I--Oh, gee!” And, Blash arising from his prostrate form, Dick went off again into a paroxysm of laughter, while Stanley and Sid sank weakly onto the bench and wiped their eyes. “Who did you get to do it?” asked Blash a few minutes later when they were making their way back to school. “Who was on the ’phone?” “Rusty Crozier,” chuckled Dick. “Rusty! And I didn’t recognise his voice! I guess, though, he put a pebble under his tongue or something.” Blash laughed. “Say, fellows, I’d have sworn he was a thousand miles away!” “He--he stood away from the ’phone,” Dick explained. “Oh!” Blash was silent a moment. Then: “I suppose you two silly pups were in on it,” he accused. “I was,” acknowledged Stanley. “Dick and I hatched it up at supper. Sid didn’t know until you’d gone out to the telephone. Rusty went to the theatre first and found out what time the big picture was coming on. We passed him on Adams Street and I was afraid you’d see him and suspect something. But I guess you didn’t.” “No, I didn’t see him. Where did he telephone from, Stan?”