enjoying a rapid succession of dizzy spells during the past week, delaying the work. He had warned Harold that another spell would surely come on if the Freshman did not stop berating him and fidgeting.
Harold glanced at his watch for the hundredth time. Ten o'clock.
"Where's the telephone?" he asked the tailor wildly.
Hertz pointed it out, half concealed under a heap of trousers waiting to be dry cleaned. Harold called Grace Beach's number.
"Well, it's about time!" came her unmistakably irritated accents over the wire.
"Listen, Miss Beach," Harold explained nervously. "I'm unexpectedly delayed. An accident. I can't come for you for half an hour or so. I'm terribly sorry. But it isn't my fault—really. I tell you what you do. No use your missing any of the fun. Call up the taxi man out in front of the Tate. 126 is the number. Have him come around for you and take you to the Frolic. I'll pay the bill. Then I'll hurry along as soon as I can and meet you there."
"That's a pretty way to go to a dance, isn't it?" Grace said sarcastically. But she decided to make the best of it. Yes, she would call the taxi. Harold clapped up the receiver and mopped his brow.
