[“At the pole stood a boy with upraised arm.”]
Kendall extinguished the light and stood for a moment in silent laughter as he heard the creak of the carriage, followed the next instant by the sound of galloping hoofs on the road. Then silence fell again. Still chuckling, he retraced his steps across The Prospect. He had had some idea at first of hiding the can of paint, but he didn’t know where to put it. And, now that the enemy was routed in disorder, it behooved him to make good his own escape from a precarious position. He wondered whether they had succeeded in putting any of the paint on the pole before their flight, but decided that he had better not show the light again. He would learn to-morrow.
He crept silently back to Clarke and breathed a sigh of relief when he found the door ajar as he had left it. There had always been the possibility that someone would come prowling around, find it undone and relock it. But fortune, it seemed, was with him to-night. He pushed open the door, entered, closed it behind him and noiselessly turned the key again. Then he faced around and discovered himself looking startledly into the eyes of the Assistant Principal!
Mr. Collins was clothed in a crimson bathgown, the tasseled cords of which he was still in the act of tying with fumbling fingers. He had evidently just arisen from bed, and hurriedly. Kendall, the electric torch still clasped in his left hand, remained stock-still and regarded the brilliant apparition with open mouth. It was the apparition that spoke first.
“Where have you been?” asked Mr. Collins sternly.
“Just—just outside, sir,” replied Kendall vaguely.
“What for?”
“Just—just to look around, sir; to get the air. I—I wasn’t sleepy, please, sir, and I—I took a walk.”
“Hm; really?” Mr. Collins’s tone was doubting. “Didn’t you know it was against the rules to leave the building after ten o’clock?”
“Yes, sir, but I—I guess I forgot it.”