“Say! He’s heading this way!” cried North suddenly. “Can he see us?”
They waited in an agony of fear and apprehension. There was a movement in the bushes—a curious sloshing, splashing sound, and something seemed to be flowing around the feet of the two plotters.
“Great guns!” cried Mersfeld, “what are we up against?”
“Keep quiet,” begged North hoarsely.
It was too late.
“Ha! I have you! Waiting for a chance to despoil the statue; are you?” cried the voice of the proctor.
He made a rush for the bushes. Mersfeld and North made a rush to get out. Their feet became entangled in the strings that had been pulled a moment before by the hidden Smith boys. Down in the pink paint went the conspirators, just as the proctor and his impressed aide hurried up and grabbed them.
“I have you!” exclaimed the college official. “I have stopped your nefarious work just in time. Strike a match, Biddel.”
The janitor obeyed. In the glow stood two sorry-looking figures, pink paint dripping from them.
“Mersfeld and North!” ejaculated the proctor. “I would not have believed a member of the Varsity nine capable of such a trick.”