“I was—what do you call it?—improvising,” replied Kendall. “All great musicians do it.”
“Well, do it outdoors then. I want peace in my own room.”
“All right,” agreed Kendall good-naturedly. “I’m off. You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for chapel.”
“Don’t care if I am,” answered Harold defiantly. But he dropped the towel and made a rush for his clothes as Kendall closed the door behind him.
When Kendall reached the front of Whitson he observed a little group of fellows at the flagpole. He hurried across to it. On the grass, overturned, lay the paint can, with two brushes, sticky with green paint, balanced on top. The brushes had been found on the grass nearby. A glance at the pole told Kendall that he had not entirely saved it from the enemy after all, for on the farther side two big streaks of bright green marred the whiteness. The group was speculating excitedly. Kendall listened:
“Must have been done early last night. The paint’s almost dry.”
“Some Third Class gang, of course. Green’s their color.”
“They ought to get their heads bumped together,” said an older boy. “Faculty’ll have something to say when they see it.”
There was an uneasy silence at that, and one or two of the smaller boys edged away. But others joined the group and the theories kept coming: