“There was no sense in it, anyway,” he muttered. “I could have gone along just as well as not. If he don’t come out in three seconds, I’ll follow.”
Joy’s “three seconds” soon elapsed, and the plebe made good his word by boldly scaling the wall. This he did by propping a piece of wood against the brick barrier, thus gaining the ironwork at the top.
Dropping lightly upon the soft earth on the other side, he started across the grounds.
He had barely taken a dozen steps when there came through the night air a crash of splintering glass, then a scream of terror.
A moment of breathless silence, then a hoarse murmuring of excited voices, interspersed by occasional shouts. By that time Joy, armed with a stout stick, was bounding in the direction of the uproar.
The intense blackness of the night had given way to a subdued light from the rising moon, whose silvery rim was even then showing above the city.
Suddenly, outlined in this faint illumination, Joy saw the figure of a man dash away from the house.
As the plebe turned to follow, shouting at the top of his voice, another figure rose up in front of the fugitive and grappled with him.
The two were struggling fiercely when Joy reached the spot. There was light enough for him to recognize in one of the combatants his chum, Clif.
That was enough for the brave lad. Calling out encouragingly, he sprang upon the back of the other.