“That will do, Wilson,” exclaimed Mr. Roylston sharply, facing them again with an indignant glare in his eye. “You have not yet got over your unpleasant habit of impertinence when occasion offers. Be good enough, please, to leave the courts immediately.”
Kit reached for his coat, and as he did so he flung the fives ball with a vicious twist against the side of the courts, so that it bounced back with a tremendous spring, and narrowly escaped collision with the master’s head as he was passing through the doorway. But Mr. Roylston, having scored, as he thought, did not give them the satisfaction of looking back. “Gosh!” exclaimed Kit, “I wish it had hit him.”
“Wish it had!” said Tony. “Come on; time’s up anyway. Gumshoe’ll go through the Old School now, and we’ll have a look to see what has become of Ducky.... I’ll wager Finch has sneaked back to his own room. He mopes there all free times, and has about fifty marks already for doing it. If Ducky’s not there, we’ll send him out for a run. If Ducky is—well, kiddo—?”
“Come on,” said Kit, significantly stuffing a long leathern strap into his trousers pocket.
They turned out of the courts. No one was in sight; the small boys under the influence of Mr. Roylston’s “suggestions” had vanished; even Finch, who had been annihilated by a sarcastic phrase as the master passed him, had crept somewhere to hide till it was time for afternoon school. Tony and Kit watched Mr. Roylston until he disappeared into the Old School, then they started on a run for Standerland.
“I’ll bet the brute has got Finch in his room. It’s just the time for it; besides Bill has gone over to the Woods with a lot of kids. Softly, Kit,” he said, as they pushed open the big doorway leading into the main hallway of Standerland House. They tiptoed cautiously upstairs, and when they got to the head, stopped to listen, holding their breath.
“Sish! what’s that?” whispered Kit.
They heard a clear long wail in a high shrill voice—“Pleaseeeee!” ending in a squeal, followed by a deeper guffah, and the sound of a whip’s lash.
“Hurry!” said Tony. “We’ll make that bully sweat for this.” Quick as a flash he was at Finch’s door, trying the handle. It was locked; so he pounded vigorously. “Open up!” he called, “and the sooner the better. Open up, you fellows—do you hear?” There was a scuffle within; then silence. Some one crossed the room rapidly, and opened the door. It was a Third Form boy by the name of Clausen—a surly bad-complexioned lad. His face showed white now through the ugly blotches. Tony and Kit stepped quickly within, and closed and locked the door behind them.