"Why, it's just like falling off a log—they all crowd into the old Science room, and then one of us will slip out and lock the door. Then the fun starts. We've saved up lots of bottles of that sulphuretted hydrogen stuff—you know, that rotten-egg smell—and we're just going to let them loose on the poor beggars. And other things that I've thought of. When they're just about done, old Simpole here will light a flashlight affair and take their photo—all sneezing and wrinkling up their noses with snuff and the awful smells—and we'll circulate that photo, or copies of it, all over the House. We'll call it, 'A Meeting of the Crees,' or something like that. The Crees will just about buck up when they see it, and it'll be the most spiffing score this term. Think of them—all dancing and prancing there, looking as scared as a lot of boxed-up rabbits!"
"I vote it a bonzer scheme!" came the admiring voice of one of Cummles's friends. "The only thing is, will it work all right?"
"Will it work?" demanded Cummles indignantly. "I should just say it will! How on earth can it go wrong?"
His questioner subsided into silence, and then Jack deemed it prudent to move quietly away.
"Will it work?" repeated the Chief Cree to himself. "Well, rather! Only in a different way from the one these Cripples intend...."
He chuckled to himself as he threw open the door of Study No. 9. Billy Faraday and Patch were there, and they had a queer-looking contraption on the table that Jack did not remember to have seen before. Patch's fingers were liberally stained with black ink, and as Jack entered he scratched his forehead in a worried manner, leaving sundry streaks and blotches on his face.
"Hullo, Patchie!" exclaimed Jack. "What a dandy you are—always titivating yourself up. If it's not rouge or face-powder, then it's ink. A nice thick coating of tar would improve the appearance of your face wonderfully."
"Well, comrade, I do not grudge you your meed of humour. I know it's a bright spot in an otherwise gloomy life. But you might put it to better use—what about writing a funny column for our paper?"
"For your what?"
"Paper, comrade," explained Patch pityingly. "In the big cities they print the news on big sheets of paper, which people buy and often read. Ours will not stop at news, though. Critical comment on curious members of the school—frightful libels on all and sundry—all that sort of thing."