"Take care, you fellows," murmured Trace; "it's that German spy."
In came the cigars. The boys, snatching them from their lips, held them behind, back-handed, and put out their heads again.
"What makes you call him a spy, Trace?" whispered Loftus.
"Because I know he is one. Mind! he saw the cigars: I watched him look up. I wonder what he is doing there."
The idea of a spy in the school—and he one of the masters—was not at all an agreeable prospect, and the smokers felt a sort of chill. "How do you know he is one, Trace?" asked Brown major.
"That's my business. I tell you that he is, and that's enough. I'd give half a crown to know what he is walking there for! He can't have any business there."
For the walk was a solitary walk, not leading to any particular spot; of course open to the inmates of the college, but nobody ever thought of going there at night. Hence the wonder. Perhaps its solitude may have made its attraction for Mr. Henry: quiet and still it lay, underneath the stars, but a minute or two's distance from his lodgings. The boys, peeping out still with hushed breath, saw him presently stroll away in the direction of his home, making no sign that he had observed them.
"Mark you," said Fullarton, much put out, "the fellow has stationed himself in those low-lived rooms of Mother Butter's to be a spy upon us. Trace is right."
But not one of them had known that during this little episode Brown minor came into the room on some mission to his brother, and had seen the red ends of the five cigars, just then held backwards. Divining that it might not be deemed a convenient moment for intrusion, young Mr. Brown withdrew quietly, leaving his errand unfulfilled; went back to his own room, and there whispered the news confidentially that the seniors were smoking.