“Dear, dear!” fussed the voice of Such. “This is quite exasperating. Can you see anyone, Babbitt?”
“Not a soul,” was the reply; “but the rascals may be in hiding. If we catch them, they shall suffer severely for daring to do anything in defiance to the expressed order of the faculty.”
“Quite right, professor—quite right. Some of them may be under the bed. I will feel about with my cane.”
Then the cane with the brad in the end was thrust under the bed, and that brad was thrust into one after another of the students hiding there. Some of them started, but not one uttered a sound, although they longed to scream when they felt that sharp point.
“I don’t seem to find anyone,” said the squeaky voice. “Light another match, Mower.”
Another match was lighted, and the professor with the cane went round to the foot of the bed.
Now it happened that Bruce Browning had attempted to crawl under the bed at that end, but had stuck fast after getting his head and shoulders under, and could not crawl farther or retreat, he was there in that uncomfortable position when Prof. Such came round.
“Hold the match here, Mr. Mower,” directed the shrill voice of the near-sighted professor. “That is it.”
“Have you discovered anything?” asked Mower’s voice.
“No, no,” was the answer. “I thought so at first, but all I can see is a suit of clothes carelessly thrown down here. There it is, professor.”