"That'll do for you, Dutch!"
These were only some of the things that Tom and his mates called at the big guard as he went on slandering the precious chair. Frank Simpson sat an amused witness of the little scene.
"It was pretty big, wasn't it?" he ventured, at length. "That chair, I mean."
"As if we were talking of anything else," retorted Phil. "Yes, it was big and heavy and clumsy—about fifty years old, I guess, and it disappeared just before the clock went off on a vacation, and came back so unexpectedly. By the way, fellows, we're as far from that mystery as ever."
"Don't speak of it!" begged Sid.
"Did your chair have a sort of reddish-brown cover on it?" went on Frank.
"That may have been the color once," broke in the irrepressible Dutch, "but it was sky-blue pink when it walked away, for these fellows used to empty their ink bottles on it, and use the upholstery for a blotter."
"Cheese it!" cried Tom. "Yes, Frank, the cover was a reddish-brown."
"And were the legs carved with claws, and the arms with lions' heads?" went on the Californian.
"Exactly! Say!" cried Phil, "like the dervish in the story of the camel, have you got our old chair?"
He arose, and fairly glared at Frank. The lat-
