Then, instantly realizing that he was making a mistake, he broke in hastily: "Beg your pardon, sir, but I don't understand how to get at the telephone number." "You try, mister," ordered Midshipman Trotter, turning to the plebe next to Dalzell.
"I can't solve the problem, sir." So it ran, straight down the line, each confessing his ignorance, until finally Mr.Trotter glared at Dave Darrin.
"Come, come, mister, from the very exact narrative that I have given, can't you deduce the telephone number of that laundry ?" "Yes, sir; I think so," answered Darrin, with a slight smile.
"Ah! Then there's a man in the squad who is more than a mere saphead.

Let us have the telephone number, mister! "Two-ate-one-John," replied Dave promptly.
This was the correct answer.

Dave had heard that "gag" before.
"Mister," beamed Mr.Trotter, "I congratulate you.

You are no mollycoddle.

Your head is not over-fat, but somewhat stocked with ideas.