Some time later there came a cautious knock on the door of the room that Tom Davis and Joe Matson shared. The two lads were deep in their books.
"Who's there?" asked Joe sharply.
"It's me—Peaches," was the quick if ungrammatical answer. "The coast is clear—open your oak," and he rattled the knob of the door.
Tom unlocked and swung wide the portal, and the hero of the Latin engagement entered.
"Quick—anything to drink?" he demanded. "I'm a rag! Say, I never swallowed so much dry Latin in my life. My throat is parched. Don't tell me that all that ginger ale you smuggled in the other day is gone—don't you dare do it!"
"Tom, see if there's a bottle left for the gentleman of thirst," directed Joe with a smile.
Tom went to the window and pulled up a cord that was fastened to the sill. On the end of the string was a basket, and in it three bottles of ginger ale.
"Our patent refrigerator," explained Joe, with a wave of his hand. "Do the uncorking act, Tom, and we'll get busy. You can go to sleep,"—this last to a book he had been studying, as he tossed it on a couch.
"Oh, but that's good!" murmured Peaches as
