“Or a cat with murderous designs on a mouse.”
“We must expose the whole thing.”
“Of course.”
“Won’t Jim be mad?”
“Let him! He won’t dare to thrash us while Roscoe is round.”
There was, indeed, about Socrates Smith an air of mystery, portentous and suggestive. He looked like one meditating a coup d’etat, or, perhaps, it might better be said, a coup de main, as the hand is with schoolmasters, generally, the instrument of attack.
When the proper time arrived, Mr. Smith cleared his throat, as he always did before beginning to speak.
“Boys,” he said, “I have an important, and I may say, a painful, communication to make to you.”
All the boys looked at each other in curiosity, except the three who were already in the secret.
“You know, boys,” continued Socrates, “how proud I am of this institute, how zealous I am for its good reputation, how unwearied I am in my efforts for your progress and welfare.”