Certainly the yearling's eyes were not on the ground. He saw not the cord on this side of the street.
There was a catch, a trip, and Mr. Butler went to the ground, mussing the knees of his spooniest pair of white ducks. Moreover, he cut the palm of his right hand, slightly, on a sharp pebble.
The pulling on the cord gave Greg's right hand a sharp yank, awakening the innocent plebe.
But Mr. Butler, having swiftly discovered the cord, and having ascertained in what direction it ran, made a dive into the tent just in time to see Greg sitting up on his mattress, holding the cord.
"So, mister," gruffed the yearling, "is this the way you amuse yourself late at night?"
"Why—what—" stammered Cadet Holmes.
"Now, don't try any of that on me," urged Mr. Butler angrily. "Mister, you're caught with the freight in your possession. What are you holding that cord for, sir?"
"I—I don't know, sir," quavered Greg, who was just beginning to feel awake after his rudely disturbed slumber.
"You—don't—know!" retorted Mr. Butler, in high dudgeon.
"What—what has happened, sir?" inquired Greg.