“I’m going to make a try,” declared Ned, vindictively. “I’ve heard that each typewriting machine has some peculiarity, and I may be able to trace this one.
“If I do find out the sneak who gave us away what I won’t do to him won’t be worth doing,” Ned went on. “The idea of spoiling a perfectly good joke this way! It’s a shame, and I’ll wager a lot it was that Frank Watson!”
“There you go again!” cried Jerry. “Jumping at conclusions.”
“I’ll jump on his head if I get a chance,” muttered Ned.
Then they lowered the picture and carried it back to the chapel, amid the grins of their companions and the stern looks of the members of faculty. Such a sacrilege had rarely, if ever before, been committed. Each professor seemed grave and angry, save Professor Snodgrass, and he looked at the boys with sympathy. He would have helped them if he could, but it was beyond his power.
“You may set the portrait down against the wall where it belongs,” announced Dr. Cole. “I will have the janitor hang it later.”
In the prayer that followed, Dr. Cole made reference to the “misguided and rash spirit of youth,” from which he asked that all might be delivered.
“He means us!” whispered Bob.
“Shut up!” retorted Ned, fiercely. “Don’t I know it!”
It is feared that our heroes—shall I call them that now, I wonder?—did not fully enter into the devotional spirit that morning. Nor, for that matter, did many of the others.