"Hokey!" he said. "Now we've done it!"
"Why? What?" asked the others, pressing forward.
"We lifted the wrong trap," murmured Jack in a voice of horror. "That's Monsieur Anastasie and the extra French set!"
[CHAPTER VIII]
FANE'S FATAL MISTAKE
Strange as it may seem, the coolest person who looked on the appalling scene in the classroom presided over by the French master was Jack Symonds himself. Recovering from his surprise, he could gaze down and enjoy the havoc even as he knew that, unless something intervened to save them, he and his companions were booked for a severe spasm of trouble—and trouble of the direst order.
But the classroom scene was irresistibly funny—too funny for words. Monsieur Anastasie stood like a sawdust statue, his comical moustache powdered with sawdust, too amazed, too dumbfounded, to utter a word of protest or surprise. Before him the sawdust was spread in an irregular layer, almost knee-deep, and it was piled on tables and chairs, and the boys of the extra French set in generous fashion.
All at once, the French master found his voice—with a vengeance. "What is ze meaning of zis?" he cried, dusting at his coat, and sending the sawdust flying in clouds. "Pah! I am smother—I am choke! Abominable!"
He raved and danced on the platform, scooping the sawdust in handfuls from his person, and then shaking indignant fists at the open man-hole.