With alacrity the cadets removed all traces of the spread, placing the empty soda-water bottles and ginger-ale bottles and other things in a closet and in the adjoining rooms.
“Now you outside fellows get into the other rooms, and hide in the closets if necessary,” said Jack. “I’ll stay here with my cousins.”
The knock on the door had been repeated several times, and Jack had answered in a sleepy voice that he was coming. Then, when all was ready, he threw the door open—to find himself confronted, not by one of the professors, as he had expected, but by Bob Nixon, a fellow who was employed as a chauffeur and a general man of all work around the school.
“You must sleep pretty sound,” announced Nixon good-naturedly. “I thought I’d have to knock the door down to make you hear.”
“I told you I was coming, Nixon,” answered Jack. “What do you want?”
“Got a telegram for you,” answered the man curtly. “Professor Brice asked me to bring it up to you. Say, you fellows certainly did trim up Hixley High to-day, didn’t you?” the chauffeur went on, grinning.
“You’re right we did!” answered Jack. He was immensely relieved to think it was not one of the professors come to spoil their feast. “Where is the telegram?”
“Here you are,” and Nixon held it forth.
“Any charges?”
“No; it’s a prepaid telegram. It was delivered with another one for Colonel Colby. He signed for it, thinking you might be asleep. I hope you haven’t got any bad news.”