in' for it, get me? Well, a bunch of them football fiends comes out on the porch with this egg which is tellin' everybody he's Kid Roberts. They're right over me and I couldn't miss a word they're sayin' if listenin' called for a twenty-year rap at hard labor. This Jim Barnaby, which is overboard over Eva, is there and he's doped out a scheme to force the Kid to leave here in disgrace. They're goin' to pull it to-day and we got to stop 'em!"
"Stop 'em from what?" I says. "Did you find out what they figured on doin' to the Kid?"
Ptomaine looks sheepish. "To tell you the truth," he says, "just as they got to 'at part of it I thought I seen 'at dime I lost and of course—eh—well, my, now, interest kind of—"
"C'mon, you big dumb-bell!" I says, grabbin' my hat. "And if this turns out to be a false alarm I'll cook you. I'm gettin' sick and tired of lookin', at that funny pan of yours, anyways!"
"If I want to look homely, 'at's my business!" says Ptomaine indignantly. "As far as 'at goes, I ain't never seen nobody mistake you for no Follies beauty!"
Further discussion along these highly interestin' lines is interrupted by a frantic knockin' at the door. Ptomaine flung it open, and then steps back with a gasp of surprise. No wonder! There stands Eva Littleton, out of breath, weepin', and wringin' her hands.
"Oh you must come with me at once!" she pants out. "Your friend the poet—Mister Eversley—has been kidnapped!"
