There was a soft knock at the door. Alf’s arm and the improvised sword dropped.
“Come!” called Tom.
The door opened and Mr. McIntyre, or Kilts, as the boys called him, faced them. Kilts was the mathematics instructor and roomed at the end of the corridor. He shook his head gently.
“’Tis past ten,” he said, “and I’m thinking ye’d best be quiet, gentlemen.”
He closed the door again and went off down the hall. Alf looked at the others in deep disgust.
“That’s always the way,” he grumbled. “Whenever I try to save the country some one butts in and spoils it!”
“You’re like the Irishman who said that Ireland could be free to-morrow if it wasn’t for the police,” laughed Dan. Alf viewed him coldly.
“I don’t see the apposition of your story, Mr. Vinton.”
“Why didn’t you start in and slay Kilts?” asked Tom.