And, as it proved, he hadn’t long to wait. Presently seven forms crept around the corner between Oxford and Whitson, and he buried himself more deeply in the shadow. They went by without suspecting him, and took the path that led down the hill toward Wissining. Gerald paused long enough to lace his shoes, and then keeping at a respectful distance, followed silently.
[CHAPTER IX]
A MIDNIGHT ESCAPADE
The seven Predatory Marauders went silently and rapidly down the path. Although only corridor lights showed in the dormitories, there was no knowing who might be staring out at them from some darkened window. Once over the crest of The Prospect, as the lawn in front of Oxford is called, the path fell quickly to the meadow below, and every member of the little band either expressed relief or experienced it. They might speak lightly of the risk and make fun of the consequences of detection, but the fact remained that they were violating two principal rules of the school, one forbidding students to leave the dormitories after ten o’clock, the other forbidding absence from the school grounds after supper-time without permission. To be found guilty of either offense might well supply cause for probation. But nobody was worrying. Without the risk, where would have been the fun?
In a few minutes they were climbing the fence into the road near the Wissining station, Alf and Harry Durfee in advance, Dan and Tom and Arthur and Chambers and Roeder following. If any one doubts my theory that the ending of a school term and the beginning of vacation produces a kind of mental intoxication, let me draw attention to the presence of Joe Chambers. Tom and Harry Durfee were fellows who might hesitate long before entering into such a madcap enterprise as that upon which they were bent, but Joe Chambers, Editor of The Scholiast, pink of Propriety and model of Culture, would no more have undertaken such a thing while in the full possession of his faculties than he would have appeared in public without his glasses, printed an advertisement on the first page of The Scholiast, or refused to make a speech! That is how I know that there is such a thing as End-of-the-Term Insanity, although that particular form of madness has not yet been recognized by the medical profession.
Once in the road all fear of discovery was left behind. Alf hummed a tune, Durfee whistled under his breath, and conversation began. They grew more quiet as they passed the station, although the platforms proved to be empty and the agent was doubtless napping in his room. The village proper lay a block away, and the road and the bridge which they presently crossed were alike deserted. Beyond the bridge the road forked, one route leading to Greenburg, and the other curving northward along the edge of Meeker’s Marsh and eventually leading to Broadwood Academy. The moon, which had obligingly hidden behind a cloud when they left the school, now appeared and lighted the road for them.
“It’s a peach of a night,” said Alf, approvingly, “but I hope Mr. Moon will take a sneak when we get to Broadwood.”
“Oh, the moon shines bright
On my old Kentucky home,”
sang Durfee, and the others joined in softly: