"Has he got it?" demanded Donaldson eagerly, as soon as they were alone at the boathouse that afternoon.
Paul nodded.
"Oh my holy aunt, what a spree! What did he say? What's he going to do?"
Paul explained, smiling. "You're not to know. I kidded him all right, and I think he's going to-night."
"Lor! what an ass! Well, we'll be there anyway. Wonder if Manning would care to come?"
"Don't ask him," said Paul. "After all Gussie's our pal, and Manning's not our year. I wish he knew nothing about it."
Donaldson stared. "He's a damned good sport, anyway."
"May be," retorted Paul. "So's old Gussie, if it comes to that."
"All right," conceded the other. "But we'll go. We'll go out at nine. It'll need a bit of reconnoitring."
Paul showed admirable strategy by suggesting to Strether that he, Paul, should take Donaldson out of college before the arranged hour for the rendezvous to avoid any awkward questions as to the other getting away from them. In the shadow of a tree, with coat collars turned up, they watched their victim arrive, cross and recross the bridge nervously; advance, obviously fuming, some way into the Common; return; look at his watch; fume some more; stamp about for a quarter of an hour; and finally make off for home. The conspirators returned another way, and Donaldson went to his own room. Paul found Strether in his, awaiting him.