“Who’s there?” demanded Tom.
“Yellow, sky-blue and maroon,” was the reply, which indicated that a freshman was without, that being the password.
“Flagpole,” answered Sid, which being translated meant that it was safe to enter, no member of the faculty nor scout of the proctor’s being nigh.
Dutch Housenlager pushed open the portal and entered. He looked carefully around, and then, coming on tiptoe to the middle of the room, after having carefully shut the door, said in a whisper:
“It’s all arranged!”
“Nay, nay, kind sir,” retorted Sid, with a shake of his head.
“Nay nay what?” demanded Dutch indignantly.
“No tricks to-night,” went on Sid. “We’re two virtuous young men. We belong to the ancient and honorable order of infra digs to-night, Dutch. Too near the exams. Thus did I exclaim ‘nay, nay, kind sir.’ We are not to be tempted, nay, even if it were to take mine ancient enemy, Pitchfork, and drop him into the lake; eh, Tom?”
“Yes. I can’t afford to take any chances. Twice bitten once shy, or words to that effect, you know. I, too, am delving into the hidden paths that lead to the spring of which the poet doth sing.”
“Say, you two give me a sore feeling in the cranium!” exclaimed Dutch as he sank into the easy chair with force enough almost to disrupt it. “Who’s asking you to play any tricks?”