CHAPTER XVI Experiments in Fragrance THE result of the first investigation in the likes and dislikes of the New Jersey mosquito brought a decided difference of opinion. It was admitted (given the swollen condition of Greaser Tunxton's legs) that the insect's sense of hearing was undoubtedly defective. Snorky Green was equally emphatic in expressing his conviction that all colors were alike to it, but Skippy insisted that it was not scientific to jump to a conclusion on the basis of one experiment.

"But golly! I had forty-seven bites on the red stocking and sixty-five on the blue, and if that doesn't prove anything, I'd like to know what!"

"It proves that blue attracts them more than red, that's all. We must now try other combinations."

"It proves one thing right here," said Snorky Green, dousing his legs with the second bottle of witch hazel. "I'm through on the human-experiment game, and that's flat."

"I'm inclined to believe we should concentrate on the sense of smell," said Skippy thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact the experiment turned out as I foresaw."

"It did, eh?" said Snorky wrathfully.

Skippy retreated to the other side of the table and hurriedly announced:

"I've been talking it over with Greaser here and the problem is narrowing down. Now what we've got to figure out is, shall we make it a washing solution or something that'll stick forever?"

"Washing solution."

"Sure we could wash the socks in some sort of preparation of citronella, couldn't we?"

"That's too easy. Any one could do that."

"Exactly! That's why we must experiment further. Greaser's got some very good ideas."

"Oh! Well, bring on your stinks; I can stand them."

"You can?"

"Sure."

"You swear?"

"I swear. What's the idea, Greaser?"

Greaser Tunxton looked at him hard and thoughtfully before replying.

"You see, citronella comes out in the wash, but there are one or two other things much stronger."

"Citronella's pretty strong!" said Snorky, who began to wonder if he had promised too rashly.

"Ever heard of asafoetida?" said Skippy, with his hand on the chemical genius.

"That's the stuff you put on the furnace at co-ed schools when you want a cut," said Snorky, who knew the story of Dink Stover's reasons for coming to Lawrenceville.

"It is quite possible," said Greaser in his smileless, scientific manner, "that, properly treated, a mixture of silk and cotton, possibly wool, will retain enough of the essential quality of asafoetida for at least a dozen washings—"

"Isn't citronella bad enough?" said Snorky, with a horrible misgiving.

"It's extremely doubtful," said Greaser, shaking his head, "but I don't want to say anything definitely before we make exhaustive experiments."

"Where?" said Snorky, shrinking. "If it's down at the pond again, good night!"

"Green!" said Skippy wrathfully.

"Bedelle to you!"

"The experiments can be conducted right here," said Greaser reassuringly.

"Oh! Well, why didn't you say so?" said Snorky, feeling a little ashamed. "Perhaps after all asa—asa—well, whatever it is, will come out in the wash, too."

"If it does," said Greaser proudly, "I've got something worse."

"Worse!" said Snorky, with a sinking heart.

"Worse!" said Skippy joyfully.

"If you put that on," said Greaser, meditating, "the socks will be better than mosquito-proof—even rattlesnakes wouldn't bite you!"

"Criminy! What is it?"

"I know what it is," said Greaser, wagging his head wisely, "but I can't pronounce it!"

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Events now moved rapidly. The following morning, despite the draft which entered through three windows and swept out the door, the Roman stopped the morning recitation after five minutes of indignant commotion in the class and, making a detailed investigation, dispensed with the presence of Mr. Snorky Green, Mr. Skippy Bedelle and Mr. Greaser Tunxton (the last with incredulous chagrin) with a request to produce each individual bath record for the week.

At eight o'clock that night Snorky Green deserted the communal laboratory, bag and baggage, announcing that he was through once and for all, and sought asylum of Dennis de Brian de Boru. Finnegan, after the first whiff, barricaded the door and seized a baseball bat to repel any aggression via the transom.

At eight-thirty, the inhabitants of the second floor held an indignation meeting on the steps.

"Holy Moses! What is it?" said the Triumphant Egghead, smelling in the direction of the offending room.

"It's a dead cat."

"Smells like ripe sauerkraut and garlic!"

"No, it smells like asafoetida."

"The deuce you say! Asafoetida is a maiden's perfume to this!"

"Well, some one's dead."

"It's the Greaser, then."

"My Lord! This is awful!"

"Skippy's found a pet skunk."

"How in blazes are we going to stand it?"

"We won't."

When the odor had finally rolled down the stairs a house meeting was called and the offenders were summoned to appear. Skippy Bedelle and Greaser Tunxton responded and the house adjourned through the windows. Now it happened that the Roman was dining in Princeton that night and the conduct of discipline was in the hands of a young assistant master, lately transferred from the wilds of the Dickinson, Mr. Lorenzo Blackstone Tapping.

Tabby, as he was more affectionately known, was apt to be somewhat confused, as is natural, before an extraordinary crisis, and had made one or two lamentable blunders. In the present case, after immediately sending in a hurry call for the plumber, he departed in a panic for Foundation House, holding before him on a pair of tongs a pair of reeking football stockings which he had seized in the wash basin, while Skippy Bedelle, under strict orders, remained twenty paces to the rear and out of the wind.

Arrived before the dark and awesome, ivy-hidden portals of the Head Master's dread abode, Mr. Tapping carefully deposited the unspeakable mess against the stone steps, stationed the rebellious Skippy under an opposite tree and entered, in a fever of excitement.

"Great heavens!" said the Doctor, starting from his chair. "Are you ill?"

"No, sir, it's not myself. That is, it's—it's the whole house; it's young Bedelle, sir. The fact is, Doctor, the situation was so serious that I—I thought I'd best come to you directly, sir."

"Try to give the details a little more calmly and coherently, Mr. Tapping," said the Doctor, retreating behind a handkerchief and studying the young assistant with a growing suspicion. He indicated his guest and added, "Professor Rootmeyer of Princeton—Mr. Tapping, one of our younger masters."

Ten minutes later Skippy, shivering under the apple tree, beheld Tabby reappear, take up the tongs gingerly and return to the house. Almost immediately the window of the Doctor's study opened with a bang and there was an iron clank in the near roadway.

"I never smelled such a smell! Is it possible?" said the Doctor, coughing. "What is it?"

"Please, sir, I don't know," said Mr. Tapping miserably.

"You don't know and you are a B. S.?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"Well, what is your explanation, or have you any explanation of this extraordinary occurrence?"

"I think, sir, the boy is completely unbalanced."

"Bedelle! He's always been steady and well conducted."

"He's been acting queerly lately, sir, and he absolutely refuses to give any explanation. The house, sir, is quite untenantable. I—I don't think the boys can sleep there to-night."

"Where is Bedelle now?"

"He is outside, sir—waiting."

"Perhaps I had better examine into this myself," said the Doctor, frowning. "Bedelle is a good boy—a bit of a dreamer, but a good, reliable boy. Mr. Tapping, you may return to the Kennedy and quiet them. I shall be over later. Keep Bedelle waiting—outside."

"Jim," said Professor Rootmeyer, the distinguished chemist, "there are only two things in God's universe can produce a smell like that—a dead Indian and butyl mercaptan."

The Doctor immediately discarded the first hypothesis.

"Frank, you've hit it. It is butyl mercaptan," he said, laughing.

"Well, how did you know?"

"I remember once when I was a shaver—"

"Go on," said Professor Rootmeyer as the Doctor came to a hurried stop.

"H'm, we are living in the present," said the Doctor after a second thought.

He rose and went to the doorstep.

"Bedelle!"

"Yes, sir."

The stench began to swell with the hurried approach.

"Stop there," said the Doctor hastily, and, having had his imagination sharpened by frequent contact with the genus boy, he added with sudden inspiration: "Go round to my study window. I will speak to you from inside."

A moment later Skippy's white face appeared, framed against the night.

"Bedelle, Mr. Hopkins reports that you were dismissed from first recital this morning, for being in a condition which unfitted you for association with your fellow beings. Is that true?"

"Please, sir, it was the citronella."

"Mr. Tapping reports that the stench arising from your room has made the house untenantable. Is that true?"

"Please, sir, that was asafoetida and—"

"And butyl mercaptan; I'm quite aware of that," said the Doctor quickly, to continue the tradition of omniscience.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Bedelle, what is your explanation? Were you trying to poison any one?"

"Oh, no, sir!"

"You were not contemplating self-destruction, were you?" said the Doctor, whose curiosity led him to adopt a light coaxing manner.

"Please, sir, I was experimenting."

"Experimenting! What for?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't tell you," said Skippy defiantly. He had foreseen the test, but he was resolved to be drawn and quartered before yielding up the secret of his future millions.

"You—can't—tell—me?" said the Doctor in his pulpit sternness.

"No, sir. I've taken an oath."

"Do you realize, Bedelle, that you owe me an explanation, that if there is no explanation for this extraordinary attack on the discipline and morale of the school that I should be quite justified in requesting your immediate departure?"

"I know, sir. Yes, sir."

"And you refuse still?"

"It's an invention, sir. That's all I can tell you, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Please, Doctor, I'd like to stay in the school."

The Doctor considered. He was a just man and his sense of humor allowed him to distinguish between the vicious and the playful imagination. After long, agonizing moments for Skippy waiting at the window, he took a sudden decision.

"Bedelle?"

"Yes, sir."

"If I let you remain at Lawrenceville, will you give me a promise—that so long as you remain here, you won't attempt to invent anything else?"

"So long as I'm in the school?" said Skippy, broken-hearted.

"Absolutely. It's that or expulsion. I have four hundred tender lives to protect. Well?"

"I swear," said Skippy, with tears in his eyes.

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.

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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.

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