Kitabı oku: «Tom Fairfield's Schooldays: or, The Chums of Elmwood Hall», sayfa 8

CHAPTER XIX
NEGOTIATIONS END

Much against his will, and very much opposed to the mild method proposed by Doctor Meredith, Professor Skeel wrote and posted the following bulletin:

“Members of the Freshman Latin Class will assemble in the gymnasium at once, at the request of Doctor Meredith, to receive a personal communication from him.

“Burton Skeel.”

It did not take long for it to be discovered, for some student or other was always on the alert for notices, athletic or otherwise, posted on the common bulletin board.

Bert Wilson was the first Freshman to know of it, and he darted off, post-haste, to tell Tom, who was in his room with Jack.

“I say, Tom!” exclaimed Bert. “Come on! Something doing in the strike!”

“How?”

Bert told of the notice, and soon the board was surrounded by a curious throng of students. From his window, where he was still in communication with Professor Skeel, Doctor Meredith saw the throng.

“There, you see!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “They are interested at once. They will listen to reason, surely. I wish you would come in person, and tell them that if they will recite to you the double lesson, you will impose no more.”

“But I refuse to make any such agreement as that. And I don’t believe they will listen to reason. Moreover, I shall have something to say to you after the meeting,” snapped Professor Skeel.

“Very well. See, they are filing off to the gymnasium now. I will soon go there to speak to them.”

Tom and his chums were indeed hurrying to the athletic building, and tongues were freely wagging on the way.

“What do you suppose is up?” asked George Abbot.

“Don’t know,” replied Jack shortly.

“Doctor Meredith is going to take a hand,” commented Luke Fosdick.

“And he’ll listen to reason,” spoke Tom. “But, even if he requests it we’re not going to knuckle down to Skeel; are we?”

“Surely not,” came in a chorus.

“The strike ends when he stops imposing double lessons on us for no reason at all, but because he is ugly,” went on Tom. “How about that?”

“We’re with you!”

“And if he doesn’t give in,” proceeded our hero, “we’ll – ”

“Burn Skeel in effigy, after we hang him!” came the cry from some one.

“That’s it,” assented Tom, glad to see that his chums were with him.

They filed into the gymnasium, and the buzz of talk continued until some one announced that Doctor Meredith and Professor Skeel were approaching.

“Ah, young gentlemen, good afternoon!” greeted the head master, as he walked in and took his stand on the platform, where the secretaries and officers of the various athletic committees presided, when there was a class or school session. Professor Skeel, with a grim look in his face, followed, and sat down.

“I am informed that you are on a strike,” began Doctor Meredith. “Very interesting, I’m sure – I mean of course it is altogether wrong,” he added hastily. “You should have tried arbitration first. However, since you have decided to strike, I am glad to be able to speak to you – to reason with you.

“I understand that you object to having to do a double lesson as a punishment. Now I dislike to have a strike in the school, and, though I do not, for one minute, admit that you are in the right, I wish to know, if Professor Skeel agrees to give out no more double lessons, will you return to your class?”

“I will make no such agreement!” shouted the irate instructor.

“Then the strike is still on!” exclaimed Tom, springing to his feet.

“Silence!” stormed Professor Skeel.

Doctor Meredith held up his hand. The commotion that had started, at once ceased.

“I will hear what Fairfield has to say,” spoke the head master, quietly.

“We have stood all we can,” went on Tom. “We do not think Professor Skeel treats us fairly. We protested once, and – ”

“By an anonymous letter!” broke in the Latin teacher.

“Yes, that was hardly right,” commented the doctor, gently.

“It was the best way we could think of,” spoke Tom. “We wanted better treatment. We want it yet, and we are going to get it, or we will continue to refuse to recite to Professor Skeel. We will continue to strike.”

“Strong words,” said the head master. “But may I ask how you came to hit on – er this – er – rather novel form of rebellion? I am anxious to know,” and he prepared to make some notes in a book. Professor Skeel fairly snorted with rage.

“It began from the very first,” explained Tom, and he went over the different steps in their trouble with the unpopular professor. “Now we can stand it no longer. We will leave school, if necessary, to gain our rights.”

Doctor Meredith looked surprised at this. The loss of the Freshman Latin class would mean a serious blow to the finances of the institution of learning. Still he would have done his duty in the face of this if he saw it clearly. But he was not at all in sympathy with the methods of Professor Skeel, and the boys probably realized this.

“And so we struck,” ended Tom, concluding the history of the rebellion.

“And it is my duty to end this strike,” declared the head master. “I ask you to return to your recitation in Professor Skeel’s room, and I – er – I have no doubt but what matters will adjust themselves.”

“We will not – we feel that we cannot – return and end the strike, unless we receive some assurance that we will be treated like gentlemen, and not imposed upon in the matter of lessons,” declared Tom.

“That’s right!” chorused the others.

“Silence!” commanded the professor, but he was not in command now, and the lads realized it. “Then you will remain on strike?” asked Doctor Meredith, as if surprised that his request had not been complied with.

“We must, sir,” replied Tom respectfully.

“Then – er – then this ends the negotiations, I presume, young gentlemen,” spoke the doctor, rather sorrowfully. “I shall have to consider what further will be done.”

“We’re ahead – so far,” commented Tom to his chums as they filed out.

“I knew it would end this way,” spoke Professor Skeel to Doctor Meredith. “You will have to be firmer. You must take the most stringent measures possible.”

“What would you suggest?” asked the head master, evidently at a loss. In fact he was thinking more of writing the paper on the strike than he was of ending it.

“I will tell you my plan,” spoke Professor Skeel, as he followed the doctor into his study.

CHAPTER XX
PRISONERS

“Well, what do you think will be the next move?” asked Jack, as he trudged along beside his chum as they came from the gymnasium.

“I don’t know, I’m sure. It’s up to them now, and we can only saw wood, and see what happens.”

“Do you think they’ll punish us?” asked George Abbot.

“Oh, there you go again!” cried Bert Wilson. “Can’t you do anything but ask questions, Why?”

“Of course I can, but I want to know what’s going to happen to us.”

“There can’t much more happen than has happened already,” said Lew Bentfield, grimly.

“That’s right,” agreed Tom.

“They will probably suspend us until we give in,” come from Jack.

“What of it?” asked Tom.

“Nothing, only if we’re suspended we can’t go to any lectures or recitations, and we’ll fall behind in our work, and be conditioned when this thing is over. That means we may lose a year.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Tom. “Besides, we agreed to stick this thing out.”

“Oh, I’m not going to back out!” cried Jack quickly. “Don’t imagine that for a second. Only this is a serious matter.”

“I know it,” admitted Tom, quietly. “And it’s a serious matter to be treated as we have been treated in class nearly every day by Professor Skeel. I’m tired of being bullyragged. This strike is for principle, not for any material advantage.

“But, anyhow, if they do suspend us it can’t last for long. Why, nearly every Freshman is in with us. That is, all but those who don’t like Latin, and they’re mighty scarce.

“Now practically the whole Freshman class of a college can’t be suspended for any great length of time, and the ban will soon be raised.”

“You mean we’ll win?” asked Bert Wilson.

“Of course we will!” declared Tom stoutly, “and the lessons we miss, if we are suspended, we can easily make up. But I don’t believe Merry will suspend us.”

There were various opinions about this, and the talk became general as the boys separated, going their different ways. Tom and a group of his particular chums went to his room.

“We ought to do something to celebrate this strike,” declared Jack, when there was a lull in the talk.

“That’s right!” cried Tom. “I’m for something to eat. I’m going to give a little dinner here to as many as we can crowd in. Let’s get busy, Jack.”

“A spread!” cried Tom’s chum. “Where are the eats to come from?”

“Oh, I’ll sneak out and get ’em as soon as it’s dark enough. You can work it so as to get some stuff from our worthy matron; can’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“Then leave the rest to me, and ask as many fellows of our particular crowd as you can squeeze into the room. Pack ’em in like sardines. The more the merrier. We’ll make this a record spread.”

“Jove, a spread just after you’ve organized a strike!” exclaimed Bert Wilson, admiringly. “Say, you do do things, Tom Fairfield.”

“Oh, what’s the use sitting around like a bump on a log?” asked our hero. “Now we’ll go to supper, and mind, every fellow is to stow away in his pockets anything not in a liquid form that he can. Bring it to the feast, for I can’t lug in any too much all by my lonesome.”

“I’ll go with you,” volunteered several eagerly.

“No, if two of us go out together it will create suspicions, and all eyes are on us now, as Napoleon said to his soldiers in Egypt, or was it in South Africa? Anyhow, I’ll sneak out as soon as it’s dark enough, and get what I can.”

There was a subdued air of expectancy at the Freshman supper that night, and many whispers ran around. It was noticed, too, that many of the lads had unusually large appetites, but they did not seem to be eating as much as they asked for. There were sly motions which some of the waiters could not understand, for they were caused when the diners slipped food into their pockets.

“Assemble in my room one at a time, as soon after the signal ‘lights out’ as possible,” explained Tom, when the meal was over. It was a rule that the boys must have their rooms in darkness after 9:30 o’clock, unless special permission for studying was obtained. “Don’t go in bunches,” advised our hero, “but a few at a time. I’m off to town.”

Watching his chance, Tom managed to elude a monitor, though, truth to tell, so amazing had the strike seemed to all the college authorities, that they were dazed, and really did not keep as close a watch over the Freshmen as usual.

Tom was in town, buying a lot of indigestible, but toothsome, dainties, dear to the palates of himself and his chums, when most unexpectedly, he met Bruce Bennington coming out of a pawnshop.

“Why, Bennington!” exclaimed Tom. “Oh, how are you?” and he quickly tried to change his first astonished tone, which had said, as plainly as anything: “What are you doing in such a place?”

“Oh, hello, Fairfield,” greeted the Senior, after a first start of surprise. Then, in a cool voice, he added: “I suppose it looks rather odd, to see me coming out of this place, but the truth of the matter is – ”

“Not at all!” interrupted Tom, determined to make amends for his seeming surprise. “I’ve done the same thing when I’m temporarily embarrassed. Besides, for all I know you may have been making a psychological study of the pawnbroker, eh?”

“Oh, of course,” laughed Bruce uneasily. “But say, youngster, you fellows are making names for yourselves. Jove! We Freshmen never went on a strike. You’ve got us beaten a mile, even if we did drive a cow up on Merry’s doorstep. But a strike! Never!”

“Maybe you hadn’t any need,” spoke Tom. “Was Skeel as bad in your time as he is now?”

“Worse, if anything. And he’s a – ” Bruce hesitated. “Well, I’ll not say it,” he concluded. “What’s up, anyhow?”

“Oh, I’m going to give a little spread.”

“Oh, I say now! That’s adding insult to injury, as the Irishman said when the parrot called him names after biting him. You Freshies are laying it on rather thick.”

“Might as well get all we can while it’s coming our way,” explained Tom. “No telling what may happen to-morrow.”

“No, that’s so. Well, I wish I was a Freshman again,” and, with something like a sigh of regret, the Senior passed on.

“There’s something wrong with him,” mused Tom, as he caught a car that would take him near the school. “And I wonder why, with all the money he is supposed to have, that he had to go to a pawn shop? Why didn’t he come to me, or some of the college boys? Too proud, I guess.”

There was snow on the ground and the weather, though cold, bore a promise of more as Tom cautiously made his way by a roundabout course over the campus and to a side door.

“Well, you’re all here, I see,” he remarked as he entered his room, and saw a crowd of congenial lads assembled there. The door communicating with the apartment of Bert Wilson, which portal was seldom unlocked, had been opened, making a fairly large apartment in which to have a forbidden spread.

“Make out all right?” asked Jack.

“Sure, I’ve got a choice assortment of grub. Let’s set the beds,” for they were to serve as tables, covered with large squares of newspapers for table cloths.

“I’ve got the windows and keyholes covered,” explained Jack, pointing to blankets tacked over the glass.

“Good! Now let the merry feast go on, and joy be loosed. For we’ll eat to-day and starve to-morrow.”

“Starve to-morrow?” gasped George Abbot. “What do you mean, Tom?”

“Nothing. I was just getting poetical, that’s all. You needn’t stare at the sandwiches and olives, George, my boy; they are substantial, if my poetry isn’t, and they won’t disappear. Come on, fellows, get busy.”

The feast was soon under way, and though the boys could have had nearly everything displayed on the “bed” at their regular meal, they all agreed that the viands tasted ever so much better served in the forbidden manner that they were.

“Pass those pickles, Jed, my boy!” commanded Tom to a lanky Freshman.

“And keep that mustard moving,” ordered Jack. “Those frankfurters are prime, Tom.”

“I thought you’d like ’em,” remarked our hero.

“Put some more on to cook,” pleaded Jack.

“Sure,” assented Bert Wilson, who presided at the “stove.”

This was an arrangement of wires, ingeniously made by Tom, so that it fitted over the gas, and on which a saucepan could be set over the flame. In this pan the sausages were simmering.

Bert put in some more, and stood anxiously watching them, fork in hand, while George buttered rolls, and passed them around.

“I propose a toast!” exclaimed Frank Carter, rising, a bottle of ginger ale in one hand, and a big piece of chocolate cake in the other.

“Hush! Not so loud!” cautioned Jack.

“Well, then, a silent toast to our host, Tom Fairfield!” went on Frank.

“Tiger!” whispered Jack, waving his Frankfurter fork in the air.

“Thanks, one and all,” replied Tom, bowing. “I will – ”

“Hark!” suddenly cautioned Jack.

The boys were silent on the instant.

“I hear footsteps,” whispered Bert.

There was no doubt but that some one was out in the corridor, but as silence replaced the rather noiseless celebration of the feast, the footsteps could be heard retreating.

“A spy sent to make a report,” was Tom’s opinion. “Well, we can’t be any worse off than we are. Keep things going, fellows,” and the spread proceeded.

Meanwhile a curious scene was being enacted in the study of Doctor Meredith. All the members of the faculty were present, and were being addressed by Professor Skeel.

“I think it is due me, as an instructor in this school, that this class be punished,” he said.

“According to your own account they have been already – with extra lessons,” remarked jolly Professor Hammond.

“That was for other breaches of discipline,” declared Professor Skeel. “They have not been adequately punished for sending me the anonymous letter, nor for this strike. I think an example should be made of them.”

“Well, perhaps something should be done,” admitted Professor Hammond. “But I should favor a mild lesson, and then – a change of programme for the future.”

“And I demand a severe lesson, and a firm hand in the future!” insisted Professor Skeel. “Unless the Freshmen are punished I shall at once resign, and the punishment I demand is the plan I first mentioned. Is it to be done, Doctor Meredith?”

“Ah – er – ahem!” stammered the mild head master. “I dislike exceedingly to take such a step, but, I suppose something should be done.”

“It must be done!” demanded Professor Skeel.

“Very well then,” sighed Doctor Meredith. “But it is a very strange state of affairs. However,” he added more brightly, “I will have some additional matter for my paper on a strike in school,” and he seemed quite delighted.

The faculty meeting broke up. So, too, in due time did the feast in Tom’s room. The boys sneaked to their respective apartments. And, rather strange to say, none of them was detected. But they did not know that a special order had come from the head master to Monitor Blackford, in charge of Opus Manor.

“Humph! It was all too easy,” said Jack, as he and Tom were ready to turn in at nearly midnight.

“What was?”

“This spread. Aside from that sneaking footstep we heard we were not disturbed once. I’m afraid it’s the calm before the storm. And it may be a bad one. But we’ll weather it.”

“Of course we will,” declared Jack. “Say, talk about a storm,” he added, as he peered from the window, from which the blanket had been removed, “it’s snowing to beat the band.”

“Good,” answered Tom. “We can get up a sleighing party to-morrow, if we can’t go to Latin class.”

When the Freshmen filed down to breakfast the next morning there was a look of surprise on every face as they glanced at the table. For at each place was a glass of water, and on each plate two slices of bread.

“What’s this?”

“Is it April Fool?”

“Who thought of this joke?”

These were only a few of the remarks and questions.

“I say!” called Tom to Mr. Blackford, who came into the room, a quizzical look on his face. “Where is our breakfast?”

“On the table.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all. Orders from Doctor Meredith.”

“Oh, I see. He’s trying to starve us into submission. I’ll not stand for that!” cried Tom. “Fellows, come on!” he added. “We’ll go to town to a restaurant!”

He moved to the front door.

“You can’t go out, Mr. Fairfield,” said the monitor firmly.

“Why not, I’d like to know.”

“Because you, and all the others, in fact all the Freshmen in this dormitory, are prisoners!”

“Prisoners!” cried a score of voices.

“That’s it,” went on Mr. Blackford. “You are to stay locked in this building, on a diet of bread and water, until you give in!”

CHAPTER XXI
THE ESCAPE

Surprise, for a moment, held the boys dumb, and then a storm of protests broke out.

“We’ll not stand it!”

“Let’s raid the pantry!”

“They’re trying to starve us into submission!”

“It’s a relic of the dark ages, boys!” cried Bert Wilson. “A prison diet of bread and water.”

“Let’s break out, and go over to the Seniors’ place in Elmwood Hall!” suggested Jack. “They’ll feed us.”

“That’s right!” cried several.

“Hold on, fellows,” called Tom.

At the sound of his calm voice the rush that had begun toward the door of the dining room, was halted. A look of relief came over the face of Monitor Blackford.

“Fellows!” said Tom, “this thing has come to a crisis. They’re trying to break this strike by unfair means. I’ve no doubt that the suggestion came from Skeel. Doctor Meredith never would have done it of his own accord. Skeel has a bad influence over him. Now then, it’s up to us to beat ’em at their own game!”

“But we can’t live on bread and water!” declared Ned Wilton. “At least I won’t. I’m not used to such fare. I always want fruit in the morning, and eggs.”

“So do lots of us,” said Tom quietly. “But we’re not going to get it this morning, at least. Now then, let’s look at this thing quietly. Let’s accept it. It can’t last forever. Sooner or later the story will get out, and the college faculty will have to give in. Our cause is right, and we’ll win. All we ask is civil treatment, as the old sailor said after the whale chase, and blamed little of that. Here’s for a hearty breakfast of bread and water.”

He made a move toward his place.

“But there’s not even butter on the bread!” cried Jack.

“Prisoners aren’t usually furnished with luxuries,” commented Tom, quietly.

“Oh, say, I’m not going to stand for this!” burst out Bert Wilson. “I’m going to leave, and wire home for permission to resign from Elmwood Hall.”

He strode toward the front door, intending to see if he could get out, but Mr. Blackford stood on guard, and he was not a small man.

“It’s no use, Mr. Wilson,” said the monitor, quietly. “The door is locked, and you can’t go out unless you break out. And it’s a very strong door,” he added, significantly.

With a gesture of impatience Bert turned toward a window. To his surprise he noted that the usual fastenings had been replaced by new ones, and, in addition, the casements were screwed down. Then, to the astonishment of the boys, who had not noticed it before, they became aware that bars of wood had been screwed in place across the outside of the frames.

“By Jove! They have us boxed in, all right!” cried Tom, as his attention was called to the precautions taken to keep the lads in Opus Manor. “This is what they were doing last night when we were having our fun. I’ve no doubt but that the spy came into the hall to see if we were likely to stay up there eating, while they got in their fine work. Oh, but we were chumps not to think of this!”

“No one would,” said Jack Fitch. “I say, though, I believe if we all go together we can break out. We can handle Blackford!”

Tom shook his head. He did not intend to submit quietly, but he knew better than to act before he had a good plan.

At that moment several of the men monitors from the other dormitories were seen in the lower hall, and one or two were at a rear door.

“They’re prepared to meet force with force,” said Tom to his chums. “Just wait a bit, and there may be something doing. Meanwhile, eat your grub.”

“Hot grub this!” exclaimed Jack. “I wish we’d saved some from last night. Any left, Tom?”

“Not a crumb. Never mind, this is good for a change,” and Tom proceeded to munch the dry bread, and sip the water.

Monitor Blackford’s face showed relief. He had been prepared to carry out the orders of the faculty with force, if necessary, but he rather hoped he would not have to do so, for he knew how lads can fight when they want to. Still he was glad they had submitted quietly. And he was not altogether on the side of the faculty, either.

“I guess it won’t be for long, young gentlemen,” he said, as he passed around the table. “I’m sure I’m very sorry to have to do it, but I’m a poor man, and my living – ”

“That’s all right,” interrupted Tom good-naturedly. “We’re not blaming you. And, as you say, it won’t be for long.”

“Then you’re going to give in?” asked the monitor eagerly.

“Not much!” exclaimed Tom. “The faculty is, and we’ll make Skeel beg our pardons. Then we’ll have a roast turkey feast on Merry.”

“I’m afraid you never will,” spoke the monitor. “The professor is very determined. I expect he’ll be over before long.”

“We’ll be ready for him,” said Tom grimly.

Once they had made up their minds to accept the situation the boys made merry over the meager breakfast.

“Anyhow, we can cut all lectures!” exulted several who were not fond of study.

“And we’ll have to pull our belts in a few holes if this sort of grub keeps up long,” commented Jack.

“Yes, a fine sort of strike this is!” sneered Sam Heller. “I never agreed to starve, Tom Fairfield.” He glared at his rival.

“You can starve with the rest of us,” spoke our hero, grimly. “Besides, you can live a long time on bread and water. I forget the exact figures, but I think it is something over a month.”

“A month!” cried Jack. “I’ll never last that long.”

“Neither will the strike,” answered Tom, coolly. “I have something up my sleeve.”

“What is it?” clamored half a dozen.

“I’ll tell you later. Now to get what amusement we can. Come on up to my room, and we’ll talk it over.”

They did talk it over, from all standpoints, but they could not agree on what was best to be done. It was a cold, blowy, blustery day outside, the storm being not far short of a blizzard.

The dormitory was warm, but soon the healthy appetites of the lads asserted themselves, and they felt the lack of their usual good breakfast. Still, save for Sam Heller, no one thought of giving in. All stuck by Tom.

During the morning, groups of students from other dormitories, the Senior, Junior and Sophomore, came past Opus Manor, and cruelly made signs of eating, for of course the story of the imprisonment of the Freshman class was known all through the college.

“Say, I’ve got an idea!” exclaimed Jack, as he saw some of his friends in the upper classes standing under his window in an angle of the building. “Why can’t they smuggle us something to eat? We can let down a basket or a box, and haul it up.”

“That’s the stuff!” cried Bert Wilson. “Let’s drop ’em a note.”

One was written and tossed out to Bruce Bennington and some friendly Seniors. They nodded assent as they read it, and hurried off.

“Now to make a basket of some sort!” exclaimed Jack.

“Take our fishing creels,” suggested Tom, who seemed to be busily engaged in thinking out something. Accordingly the fishing baskets were tied to strings, which the boys collected from many pockets, and were made ready to be lowered for food.

In due time, under cover of the storm, which had grown so bad that the swirling flakes hid objects ten feet away, the Seniors returned with food which they had somehow obtained. There were also bottles of cold coffee and soft drinks.

“This is great!” cried Jack, as he hauled up the creels, several times, well laden. “There isn’t going to be a feast, but it’s something.”

“And it has given me the idea I wanted!” cried Tom.

“What is it?” demanded several.

“We’ll escape from the second story windows to-night! We can make ropes of the bed clothes, in real story-book fashion, lower ourselves down, and hie into town. We’ll put up at some hotel or boarding houses there, and the school can get along without us until they recognize our rights.”

“Good!” came in an enthusiastic chorus. “Let’s start right away,” added Jack.

“No, not until after dark,” advised Tom. “We will be caught if we go before.”

The sandwiches and other things which the Seniors had provided made a welcome addition to the slim dinner. Professor Skeel came in as the boys were about to arise from the table, probably to gloat over them. He was received with a storm of hisses.

“Stop that, instantly!” he cried, his face pale with anger.

“Keep it up,” ordered Tom, and keep it up the boys did, until the discomfited instructor had to withdraw, vowing vengeance on the lads whom even a diet of bread and water, and the humiliation of being made prisoners, could not subdue.

“But I’ll break their spirit yet!” said the professor, grimly.

The preparations for the escape went on. Several ropes were made from torn sheets and light blankets, and fastened to heavy objects as anchors, in various room whence the lads were to take French leave. Several were to drop from Tom’s window.

The storm grew worse, and the boys put on their heaviest garments. Night approached, the bread and water supper was served, and Mr. Blackford remarked to his wife:

“I don’t see what makes the boys so cheerful.”

“Maybe they are up to some mischief,” she suggested.

“How could they be?” he asked. “They can’t get out to get anything to eat, for the doors and windows are all fastened.”

“Well, you never can tell what boys are going to do,” she said. “I’d be on the watch.”

“I will,” agreed her husband, and he and the other monitors looked well to the fastening of the doors and casements.

“All ready now, boys?” asked Tom, as it grew darker.

“All ready,” answered Jack. “I don’t believe they can see us now.”

“Go easy,” advised Tom. “Hold on tight going down, and don’t slip. One at a time, and we’ll meet at the twin oaks on the far edge of the campus, and tramp into town. The car line is blocked, I guess, with all this snow.”

One by one the boys slid down the improvised ropes, going from rooms where they could drop to the ground unobserved from any of the lower windows.

“Are we all here?” asked Tom, when the escape was finally concluded, and the crowd of students had assembled under the oak trees, the few brown leaves of which rustled in the wintry blast.

“I guess so,” answered Jack. “But I didn’t see Sam Heller.”

“I saw him slide down a rope from Pete Black’s room,” remarked Bert Wilson, “and then I noticed that he sneaked off by himself.”

“Let him go,” suggested Tom. “We’re better off without him.”

“Unless he’s going to squeal on us,” came from Jack, suddenly.