“Fastened on the inside,” he exclaimed, after a fruitless effort.
“Come down, then,” said Zeb. “We must try another.”
And so they did, but with a result that was but faintly expressed by Zeb Fuller’s final declaration:
“Something wrong, boys. Old Sol’s been plotting against us again. It won’t do for us to go around in front. Not in broad daylight. But we must look out for our rights. Next thing we shall have a rebellion among the teachers after the school begins.”
The symptoms threatened something of the kind, doubtless, but just then one of the smaller boys, who had been acting as a sort of scout or sentinel, came up with the intelligence that a large wagon was being hauled across the green, towards the Academy, and that it was accompanied by the principal himself, with two or three of the trustees and a stranger, on foot.
“Hurrah!” shouted Zeb. “That’s the new apparatus. Boys, we’re in the right place at the right time. It would never do to let that stuff be stowed away without our help. We’d never know where half of it went to.”
No wonder the boys of Ogleport had such blind faith in Zeb Fuller’s leadership.
When the wagon was pulled up in front of the steps leading to the door of the “lecture room,” in the rear “addition” to the main building of the Academy, Dr. Dryer could hardly repress an exclamation of surprise at the amount and energy of the “popular aid” which awaited the unloading of that cargo of scientific goods.
Not that anything very remarkable showed itself through the numerous pine-boxes, but Mr. George Brayton, in the simplicity of his heart, deemed it a most encouraging sign that so many of his future pupils should take so deep an interest in such a matter.
At all events, the strong and willing hands of Zeb Fuller and the rest made the transfer of those boxes to the lecture-room floor a very brief and easy piece of work.