“They can’t help being caught the way we’ll work it,” was the crafty reply.
“Why not?”
“Because the night they select for the joke—and we’ll know when it is—there’ll be an anonymous letter dropped at Proctor McNibb’s door, telling him what is going to be pulled off. He’ll get on the job, and catch the Smith boys at the game. How’s that?”
Mersfeld meditated a moment.
“I guess it will do,” he said slowly—“only,—”
“Well, what’s the matter with my plan?” demanded the bully half angrily.
“If you or I propose such a game to Bill or his brothers they’ll smell a rat right away.”
“Of course they will, but you don’t s’pose I’m such a ninnie as to propose it ourselves; do you?”
“What then?”
“Why I’ll have some one who is friendly to them do it. Oh, don’t worry, they’ll fall for it all right enough. Now come on over to my room, and we’ll fix it up,” and the two cronies, one a rather unwilling participator in the plot, walked along the campus, casting back a look at the gaily lighted windows of the apartments of the Smith boys.