"Oh, they'll turn up again all right," said Jimaboy; and he went on with
his polishing.

They did turn up, most surprisingly. Three days later, Isobel was
glancing through the thirty-odd pages of the swollen _Sunday Times_, and
she gave a little shriek.

"Horrors!" she cried; "the _Times_ has printed those ridiculous jokes of
ours, _and run them as advertisements_!"

"What!" shouted Jimaboy.

"It's so; see here!"

It was so, indeed. On the "Wit and Humor" page, which was half reading
matter and half advertising, the Post-Graduate School of W. B. figured
as large as life, with very fair reproductions of Isobel's drawings
heading the displays.

"Heavens!" ejaculated Jimaboy; and then his first thought was the
jealous author's. "Isn't it the luckiest thing ever that the spirit
didn't move me to sign those things?"

"You might as well have signed them," said Isobel. "You've given our
street and number."

"My kingdom!" groaned Jimaboy. "Here--you lock the door behind me, while
I go hunt Hasbrouck. It's a duel with siege guns at ten paces, or a suit
for damages with him."

He was back again in something under the hour, and his face was haggard.

"We are lost!" he announced tragically. "There is nothing for it now but
to run."

"How ever did it happen?" queried Isobel.

"Oh, just as simply and easily as rolling off a log--as such things
always happen. Lantermann saw the things on the desk, and your sketches
caught him. He took 'em down to show to Hasbrouck, and Hasbrouck,
meaning to do us a good turn, marked the skits up for the 'Wit and
Humor' page. The intelligent make-up foreman did the rest: says of
course he took 'em for ads. and run 'em as ads."

"But what does Mr. Hasbrouck say?"

"He gave me the horse laugh; said he would see to it that the
advertising department didn't send me a bill. When I began to pull off
my coat he took it all back and said he was all kinds of sorry and would
have the mistake explained in to-morrow's paper. But you know how that
goes. Out of the hundred and fifty thousand people who will read those
miserable squibs to-day, not five thousand will see the explanation
to-morrow. Oh, we've got to run, I tell you; skip, fly, vanish into thin
air!"

But sober second thought came after a while to relieve the panic
pressure. 506 Hayward Avenue was a small apartment-house, with a dozen
or more tenants, lodgers, or light housekeepers, like the Jimaboys. All
they would have to do would