“I—I can’t stay here so long. It’s cold and I—I ain’t got anything to eat.”
“Well, make the best of it,” was the cry, and then the masked cadets scampered off, and a few minutes later were safe in their dormitories in the Hall.
With a sinking heart Dan Baxter listened to them depart, and then gave a deep groan.
“I—I can’t stand this!” he muttered to himself. “It’s dreadful! And to think they branded me, too. What will Paxton and the others say!”
The loft was not a particularly cold place, for the windows were tightly closed. Waiting to make sure that the crowd had gone, he pulled himself free from his bonds.
When he placed his hand to his forehead he could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. He could feel nothing of the branding—his forehead was not sore—it did not hurt! What could it mean?
“They must have tricked me!” he told himself. “What a fool I was to raise such a howl! How they’ll laugh at me for it! But it did feel just as if I was being burnt!”
All was pitch-dark around him, for the masked cadets had taken the lantern with them. He stepped forward and ran into a low beam, giving his forehead a severe bump.
“Ouch! Nothing fake about that!” he muttered, dancing around. “I’ll have to be careful, or I’ll break my neck. Wonder how far I am from the Hall and what sort of a place this can be?” He felt around and grasped some old spider webs. “Some half tumbled down shanty, I suppose. Perhaps I’d better make myself at home until morning,” and he crouched down and hid himself in the old horse blanket. He remained awake half the night, finally falling off into a troubled doze.
When Baxter awoke it was early morning and still dark. He felt cold from head to feet and gave a shiver.