"Oh, my hat!" he exclaimed. "There's been dirty work here to-night, and it's not all the wind's doing, either. Have a squint, Roger!"
"Burglars!" cried Roger. "They've burst open the locker, and it's any odds our money's gone. Investigate, Dick, quick!"
No investigation needed! The thieves had made a good job of it!
"Not even left a luck-penny behind them!" groaned Dick. "Roger, old man, we're 'broke'. The hounds have cleaned us out!"
"Our savings gone, and every cent of the Rag's subscription money, likewise! Oh, confound that printing-works' manager—why the dickens couldn't he have taken the 'dibs' when we offered to pay? It—it's stark tragedy, Dick!"
He sank into a chair with his head in his hands, apparently overwhelmed. Dick, always more practical, hastened to the door.
"Crying mops up no spilt milk, old boy," he said. "The police must know of this. I'll knock up Mr. Rooke, and get him to telephone down."
Roger's teeth were chattering, but he followed Dick to the housemaster's quarters, and helped him to pommel the bedroom door. Mr. Rooke grumbled sleepily at this unceremonious alarum. He had been awake half the night, and he eyed the boys with sour disapproval until they had explained matters. Then he became gravely alert.
"Show me the damage," he said. Having seen it, he flew back with long strides to a room next his own and examined a cabinet there. It had been wrenched open and its contents extracted.
"Boys," he gasped, "that's the Headmaster's coin and pewter cupboard, and they've stripped it bare. Coins of the Roman era, with some almost invaluable old silver and pewter besides. He had them insured for some hundreds of pounds, but money can't replace them. Hello, there!" He was at the telephone now. "This is Foxenby School; get me the Moston police-station, please—I don't know its number. Quick as you possibly can—there's been a burglary."