At that juncture the door was flung open, and Crieff, one of the oldest boys in the school, rushed into the dormitory, red and breathless, and minus his cap.
Now, Crieff was usually a very sedate fellow, and went about as stately as an Oriental grandee. His neck was rather long, and at every stride he stiffened his legs and bulged out his chest, so that he was suggestive, somewhat, of a dignified stork.
The boys of the dormitory were astonished, therefore, to see him in so breathless and limp a state.
"What's up?" asked Caggles, with mouth agape.
"The tennis-ground!" gasped Crieff, mopping his face with a handkerchief.
The tennis-ground at Bidford School was reputed to be one of the finest in the whole neighborhood. It had been specially laid, and its smooth surface was as level as a billiard-table. Every boy was proud of it, and Crieff tended it with the anxiety of a father.
"What's up with it?" asked two or three voices.
"Spoiled! Ruined!" said Crieff, almost with tears in his eyes.
"Never!" cried Bottlebury.
"It is. Somebody has dug holes all over it with a spade. I've just been down and seen it."