“Well, we shan’t hear anything about it till to-morrow morning,” said Cross. “Sure to come on at morning prep. Great Scott, but there’ll be some swishing on!”
“Haviland won’t take it, I expect.”
“He’ll be jolly well expelled then.”
“He won’t care. I know he won’t take a swishing. I hated him when he was a prefect, but now I hope he’ll score off Nick.”
“P’raps he’s not in it.”
“Not in it? Why, the whole room’s in it.”
And so the discussion ran on; the while, however, the news had somehow leaked out, and the presage of a row—and a very big row at that—hung over the school like a thundercloud.
It will be necessary to go back.
For a day or two after the exploit chronicled in the last chapter our two midnight marauders plumed themselves on their feat of arms, and delighted to meet and fight their battle over again in a secluded corner of the playing fields, the only thorn in the rose being that they had lost the air-gun, abandoned during the precipitancy of their flight, and, of course, the pheasant. This, however, they decided was of small account compared with such a glorious experience as had been theirs, and they positively glowed over the recollection of their adventure. But they were a little premature in their elation. Retribution was at hand, and this is how the bolt fell.