Tom was about to rush out into the corridor, when Frank laid a restraining hand on his sholder.
"Hold on, son," he began mildly. "There's been enough running around for one night. It won't be healthy, for one thing, to do any more, for it is beastly cold. And, for another, there is no use in running our heads into a noose. Simond was decent, you say, Tom, and there's no sense in putting it on him—rubbing it in, so to speak. We'll just lay low until morning and then we'll get our clock. You say you know where it is?"
"Well, I saw the fellow that was in here enter some room on the floor above. I couldn't pick it out exactly, but I can come pretty near it."
"That'll be all right. Who do you think it was?"
"Dutch Housenlager!" declared Tom.
"He doesn't room up there," retorted Phil.
"Well, he may have slipped in some room up there to throw me off," said Tom.
"More likely it was Jerry Jackson," was Frank's opinion. "He was poking fun at the clock yesterday."
"As long as he doesn't poke anything more than fun at it, all right," said Phil. "We're the only ones licensed to use toothpicks and battle-axes on it."
"Poor old clock," sighed Sid. "It does get abused, but still it is a faithful friend. Remember
