“B-l-e-r-s,” whispered Don, as he stepped out into the fire-escape.
“R-a-m,” came the response, in the same low whisper.
The pass-word of the band of worthies to which Don now belonged was “Ramblers.” Of course it was used only in the dark, or when the members could not see each other. If a boy desired to know whether or not a student whom he suddenly encountered in some out-of-the-way place was a friend, all he had to do was to spell the last syllable of the pass-word, as Don had done; and if he received the same answer that Don did, he knew at once that he had found some one who could be depended on. At least that was what Fisher and Duncan told Don; but the reader already knows that they did not tell him the truth.
“Who is it?” whispered Don.
“Fisher,” replied the owner of that name; and as he spoke he stepped forward to lock the door.
“Hadn’t you better leave it unfastened?” asked Don.
“Not by a great sight,” answered Fisher, quickly. “The officer of the day and the corporal on duty try all these doors every time they make their rounds, and if they should happen to find one of them unlocked, good-by to all our hopes of eating pies and pancakes at Cony Ryan’s again this winter.”
“Then how can I get back to my room?”
“Why, I shall be here to open the door for you.”
“But we might get separated, you know.”