"A council of war!" demanded Terry. "Come on back to bed
--the bed's all right anyhow. Now then, my scientific friend, let
us consider our case dispassionately."

He meant me, but Jeff seemed most impressed.

"They haven't hurt us in the least!" he said. "They could have
killed us--or--or anything--and I never felt better in my life."

"That argues that they are all women," I suggested, "and
highly civilized. You know you hit one in the last scrimmage--
I heard her sing out--and we kicked awfully."

Terry was grinning at us. "So you realize what these ladies
have done to us?" he pleasantly inquired. "They have taken
away all our possessions, all our clothes--every stitch. We have
been stripped and washed and put to bed like so many yearling
babies--by these highly civilized women."

Jeff actually blushed. He had a poetic imagination. Terry had
imagination enough, of a different kind. So had I, also different.
I always flattered myself I had the scientific imagination, which,
incidentally, I considered the highest sort. One has a right to a
certain amount of egotism if founded on fact--and kept to one's
self--I think.

"No use kicking, boys," I said. "They've got us, and apparently
they're perfectly harmless. It remains for us to cook up some plan
of escape like any other bottled heroes. Meanwhile we've got to put