The fact of the matter was that the professor did not seem to
own any sort of wardrobe whatever, and had nothing belonging to him save
the clothes on his back, the little case of butterflies which Frank
believed he had bought for a dollar over in Cranford at the curio
dealer's shop, and a few bottles holding some strong smelling acids,
which possibly were used to either kill the captured butterflies so they
would not beat their wings out; or else to preserve certain specimens
of bugs he expected to run across in his hunts.
"Nothing doing," said Andy, with considerable of disgust and
disappointment in his voice.
"Come here!" remarked his cousin, softly.
"Hello! don't tell me you've found something?" and Andy crossed the
floor in more or less haste.
He found Frank bending over a table at which there were writing
materials--pen, envelopes, paper and a blotter.
"What's doing? Have you found the gentleman's notebook lying carelessly
around, and which we can peep into, eh, Frank?"
"Not at all," came the reply. "I was only looking at this blotter."
"Whatever is there funny about that?" demanded the other, in puzzled
tones, as he glanced first at the object in question, and then up at the
face of his chum.
"It was a new one, or nearly so, you see! and somebody has been writing
heavily, and then pressing the blotter over it," Frank went on.
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