"Where you going?" called Sid.
"I'm going to see Rosenkranz and ask him about this mix-up."
"It's too late," declared Phil. "Rosenkranz is quite a distance toward home by this time. We'll see him later—to-morrow, after the game. But it sure is a queer mix-up. Who'd ever suppose there was another chair like ours."
"This one is newer," announced Tom, who had turned it right side up again, and was critically examining it.
"Not newer, I guess," said Phil. "Only it hasn't had the usage ours got. This is evidently of the same vintage, but has been reposing in some one's back parlor for centuries, with the curtains down and the blinds closed to keep out the sun. But a fair exchange is no robbery, and I don't know but what we're just as well off. We have a better chair than ours."
"I'd rather have our own," declared Sid.
"So would I," added Tom. "It sat easier," and he dropped into the chair, and lolled back critically.
"Here, give me a show at it," begged Sid. "I haven't had my sitting yet."
Tom arose reluctantly, and, as he did so, there came a knock on the door.
"Come!" cried Phil.
It was Wallops, the messenger.
