There was something so mean and cowardly in this scheme, and in the manner in which the proposal was made, that even Thurston gave vent to an exclamation of contempt.
"So that's your little game, is it?" he inquired.
"Yes, that's it; that's my little project for putting a stop to the Wraxby match. There'll be an awful row, and the doctor'll keep the team from going. Now, then, who'll do the trick?—Will you, Hawley?"
"No fear," answered Hawley. "Gull and I did most of the last two blow-ups; it's some one else's turn now. Suppose you do it yourself, as it's your idea."
Fletcher frowned: in matters of this sort he liked to make the plans and get others to execute them. "Well, I was thinking one of you might," he began.
"Oh, bother!" interrupted Thurston, whose revengeful spirit had been once more aroused by the mention of the Wraxby match—"it's nothing; you and I'll do it."
"And I'll help if you like," added Noaks, who thought the present occasion a good opportunity to distinguish himself.
"All right," continued Thurston: "you go down town and get some screws,
Noaks—two or three good long ones."
"Well, we'll fix to-morrow night," said Fletcher. "Keep awake, and meet at the top of B staircase, say at one o'clock; then there's no fear but what every one'll be asleep."
The Triple Alliance had for some hours ceased to puzzle their brains over either Virgil or cipher notes, and the whole of Ronleigh College was apparently wrapped in slumber, when three shadowy figures assembled on the landing at the top of staircase B, and proceeded noiselessly along the corridor, and down the side passage at the end of which Mr. Grice's room was situated.