“But how?” eagerly asked the pitcher. “I’m beginning to agree with you. How can I catch Mersfeld and North at their little game, for a game I think it is?”
“Easy enough,” said the professor. “Go on as if you and your brothers and Whistle-Breeches—Oh, what a classical name—go on as if you intended to carry out the trick. Take my word for it those fellows will be hidden somewhere ready to see you caught, and you can turn the tables on them.
“In some way they will, I feel sure, get word to the college authorities of what is on foot. Very well, you have but to stay away at the last moment, and give some sign by which the proctor will be led to the hiding place of your enemies. Then, by judiciously spilling a little of the pink paint near their rooms, and secreting a pot of it near their hiding place, you will have them on the hip, as my friends the Romans say.”
“Good!” cried Bill, after a moment’s thought, “I’ll do it.”
“Then here is the pink powder,” went on the professor, handing Bill several packages, “and may luck attend you. Just mix it with water, and it will do the work. Now, Tithy, I can attend to your case.”
“And I’ll get back to school, and put up a game on North and Mersfeld,” said Bill.
“We wish we could be there to see,” spoke Mr. Clatter in eager tones. “Tithy and I would enjoy it, but we have troubles of our own. I’ll be around this way in about two weeks again, and you can tell me about it.”
“Come to the ball game,” invited Bill. “We’re going to play Sandrim in a league contest.”
“I will, if I am not in jail,” promised the astronomer solemnly.
Bill hurried back to his brothers and told his story, adding the professor’s suspicions, warnings and advice.