But Revenge sleeps sounder than Caution. As five struck in the clock tower, Ramshaw, who had had it on his mind he might oversleep himself, and, in consequence, had been up looking at his watch every ten minutes during the night, slipped finally out of bed, and roused each of his partners. He expected no gratitude for his good offices, and was not disappointed. The sleepers growled and grunted at his well-meant efforts, pulled the clothes over their heads, called him unfriendly names, threatened him with untold vengeance, and scouted all idea of danger by delay, till he was almost tired of trying. But by the end of three-quarters of an hour, with the aid of a moist sponge and other persuasives, he got them to their feet well awake to a sense of the undertaking before them.
They still grumbled—at the cold, and the darkness, and the fatigue, and blamed Ramshaw for all three. They heartily despised themselves for their promise to the Classic boys last night, and still more for the row with their own prefects, which was the cause for all this inconvenience. But as they gradually slipped on their clothes, and the warm bed receded more into the background, they cheered up and recovered their courage.
There was no difficulty in getting out. The dormitory door stood open. Brinkman, who was the prefect on duty, lay snoring loud and long in the end bed. Mr Forder’s bedroom was on the safe side of a brick wall. Carrying their boots in their hands they slunk off to their study, where they made a hasty selection from the miscellaneous provisions stored over-night, and then, one by one, solemnly slid down the rope.
Once on the grass, in the chill, dark air, depression fell upon them a second time. Their thoughts returned to the snug beds they had left. Even Brinkman and Clapperton could not take it out of them more than this white frost and nipping air. However, the bell began to toll six; and the thought of their companions in discomfort spurred them on to energy. They crawled across the Green to Wakefield’s.
Four ghostly figures were visible in the feeble dawn, hovering under the wall.
“Got the grub?”
It was the cheery voice of Wally Wheatfield, at sound of which the pilgrims took comfort, and were glad they had turned out after all.
The first thing was to get clear of Fellsgarth, which was easily accomplished, as no one was about. Even had they been observed, beyond the general wonder of seeing nine juniors taking a morning walk at 6 a.m., there was nothing to interfere with their liberty. As soon as they got into Shargle Woods a brief council of war was held.
“It’s a jolly stiff climb,” said Wally.
“I’ve got a compass,” said Ashby, as if that disposed of the difficulty. Ashby had an ulster, which just then seemed to some of his comrades a still more enviable possession.