“Well, what do you think of that?” he asked.
“I think mighty little of it,” Ned remarked, sarcastically. “Mighty little.”
“How’d he get in on us so quickly?” Bob demanded, as he stood with spoon in hand over the chafing dish containing the second smoking Welsh rarebit, almost ready to be spread on the toast. “Wasn’t the door locked?”
“Sure it was!” Jerry answered. “But he opened it with a key as soon as he knocked. Only for that we might have had time to get the lights out and some of the stuff hid.”
“That’s right,” agreed Ned. “It was tough luck, all right.”
Puzzling over how their natural enemy had thus been able to steal such a silent march upon them, wondering what the outcome would be, and not a little abashed at the inglorious outcome of their first entertainment, the three boys cleared away the remains of the feast and tumbled into bed.
But with all their troubles their sleep was not interfered with, and they awoke as usual in the morning with just a few minutes left in which to slip, somehow, into their clothes and rush to chapel, getting in with a number of other latecomers, just as the doors were closing.
It is to be feared that the minds of Bob, Ned and Jerry were very little on the devotional exercises and singing, this state of feeling being shared by the other culprits, who did not have a very pleasant prospect before them.
“Wonder what proxy will do to us,” mused Bob, as, with his two chums, he walked toward the office of the proctor.
“He’s pretty fierce, I hear,” remarked Ned.