The Doctor bit hard and said:

"Then I shall overlook this. Your record is in your favor. I shall
overlook this. I have your word of honor, Bedelle. Good night."

Skippy drew a long breath and went hurriedly back to the Kennedy. But
there he halted. The smell was awful and the comments which reached him
through the open windows were not at all reassuring.

"I think--I think perhaps it's warm enough outside," he said,
heavy-hearted.

* * * * *

For two more years he had solemnly sworn to refrain from inventing, and
Skippy was a man of his word. No matter, there was this consolation:
Mosquito-Proof Socks would some day be a reality; butyl mercaptan had
proved its worth at the first test. He would devote himself to a
scientific preparation. He was young. With twice ninety-two million legs
to be protected with six pairs of socks or stockings a year, he could
afford to wait.

"Before I'm thirty, I'll be a millionaire," he said defiantly. "I'll own
race horses and yachts and boxes at the opera and I'll marry--" Here he
hesitated and the figure of Lillian Russell somehow became confused with
a new apparition. Something that was and was not Miss Virginia Dabtree,
but most certainly wore silver stockings, which it would be his duty and
privilege to protect. "Well, anyhow, she'll drive a four-in-hand and
wear pearls for breakfast," he concluded, and, whistling, he went down
to dream out the night in the baseball cage.

CHAPTER XVII

SOAP AND SENTIMENT

TEN days after the dreadful fiasco of the Mosquito-Proof Socks, when a
corps of experts had succeeded in removing the stench from the upper
floors of the Kennedy; when certain garments had been taken out under a
vigilantes committee and had been publicly interred; when the three
offenders had again been permitted to resume their membership in
civilized society--Snorky Green began to be alarmed at certain
disquieting symptoms in the conduct of Skippy Bedelle.

"I don't like it," he said, standing before his roommate's washstand in
a dark reverie. "Danged if I like the looks of things. Somethin' is
certainly doing. It certainly is."

He picked up a large new nailbrush, showed it to Dennis de Brian de
Boru, who had been called in consultation, and shook his head.

"Spending his money on bric-a-brac like that--and that's not all!" he
said indignantly.

"Let me know the worst," said Dennis who, perched on the table tailor
fashion