AND FOILS IT
Kendall thought Harold would never get to sleep that night. Hoping
that his roommate would follow the example, Kendall piled into bed at
half-past nine, but Harold, who usually yawned all through study hour
and got between the sheets as soon as possible afterwards, to-night
displayed a most unusual and annoying wakefulness. Even after he was
in bed and the light was out he wanted to talk, and only stopped when
Kendall simulated slumber by making hideous noises in his throat. Had
Harold been of an observant nature he would have remarked on the sudden
development of this accomplishment, for Kendall had never been known to
snore until to-night.
It was long after ten o’clock when regular breathing from across the
room told Kendall that his roommate was asleep. He waited five minutes
more to make certain and then arose softly, donned trousers and jacket
over his nightgown――Kendall had not yet become so stylish as to affect
pajamas――and thrust his bare feet into his canvas “sneakers.” Making
certain that the electric torch was in his pocket, he opened the room
door noiselessly and peeked out. The dimly lighted hall was empty.
Leaving his door slightly ajar, he scuttled to the stairway and stole
down. Two of the faculty, Mr. Collins, the Assistant Principal, and Mr.
Frye, lived on the lower floor and Kendall had no desire to encounter
them. Mr. Collins’s transom, however, was dark, and although a light
showed in Mr. Frye’s study, it was further down the corridor and well
out of sound.
As he expected, the big outer door was locked. But the key was on the
inside and it turned without a squeak. The door was not so quiet, but
it is doubtful if it made nearly so much noise as Kendall thought. He
crept through with his heart in his throat, feeling like a burglar
leaving the scene of his depredations. In another moment he was
swallowed in the darkness.
Cautiously, treading on the grass and keeping as close as he might to
the front of the buildings, he made his way to Oxford. All was quiet
as yet. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he found that he
could see for some little distance. There was the flagpole, a grayish
streak in the gloom, and he thought he could make out the edge of The
Prospect beyond. Some stars showed, but for the most part they were
obscured by clouds. It was an ideal night for desperate deeds, Kendall
reflected, and he shivered pleasurably as he ensconced himself in the
doorway of Oxford. He wondered what time it was, but had no way of
determining. Suddenly a drumming sound reached him and he listened
acutely. It grew and grew and at last resolved itself into the rush
of a night freight bearing down from the east. Presently a ruddy glow
smote the darkness away to the left as the fireman fed coal to the
pounding engine. Then all was blackness again, and the roar of the
train as it rushed through the cut a little distance away filled the
night. After a moment Kendall could see the tail lights as the train
swept across the bridge into Greenburg. Hoarse and low came the distant
whistle of a steamer on the Sound. Then quiet settled down again.
Although the day had been unseasonably warm, the night held a chill
that was fast getting through Kendall’s scant attire. And the stones
felt very cold under the worn soles of his rubber “sneakers.” He wished
that the enemy would make its appearance and have done with it. And at
almost the same minute, as though in answer to his wish, there reached
him faintly the sound of a creaking carriage from beyond the slope.
The sounds ceased. Kendall, straining sight and hearing, waited, his
heart pounding against his ribs. Minute after minute passed. Time and
again his imagination peopled The Prospect with skulking figures, and
more than once he was certain that he heard voices. But when the enemy
did appear it was from an unsuspected quarter.
Kendall had been so sure that they would creep up over the edge of The
Prospect that he never took his eyes from that direction until a sound
at his left, the faintest sound imaginable, summoned his gaze. They had
come by the drive, after all, banking, doubtless, on the darkness to
remain undetected. When Kendall first saw them they were almost halfway
across the turf between the drive and the flagpole, which, from where
he hid in the entrance of Oxford, was a scant twelve yards distant.
Kendall’s hand, which had been clutching the electric torch for many
minutes, tightened and his finger sought the button. But he waited a
moment longer, waited while they reached the flagpole, four darker
blots in the darkness, and paused there. Then two of the forms
separated from the others, one advancing to the right and the other to
the left and kneeling, apparently, on the turf. Only once the sound of
a voice reached Kendall. Then he thought he heard the word “brush”
uttered in a low tone. And then up went his arm, his finger pressed on
the button and――
Darkness as before!
The torch had failed to work! Frantically Kendall pressed the button,
but it was no use. What was the matter? The torch had been all right
earlier in the evening, for he had tested it more than once. Perhaps――!
Hurriedly he unscrewed the lens at the end and felt of the tiny lamp
inside. That was it! It had become sufficiently unscrewed to break the
connection. He tightened it with trembling fingers, put back the lens,
again pointed it at the base of the flagpole and pressed the button.
A path of white light leaped before him into the darkness. In that
brilliant flood of radiance every object stood out sharp and distinct
as though in a flash of lightning. At the pole, frozen into immobility,
stood a boy with upraised arm. Beside him a second boy leaned to dip
his brush in the can of paint. At the edge of the radiance, to left and
right, the two watchers knelt on the grass like Indian scouts and gazed
with wide, frightened eyes into the glare of the torch. The picture
lasted but an instant. Then came one sudden exclamation of alarm and
four figures were scuttling for the edge of The Prospect, their
shadows fleeing before them. Then they were gone. Kendall raced after.
The light from the torch swept the long, steep slope. Two of the boys
had reached the bottom safely, but the others were rolling over and
over, pellmell, legs and arms thrashing the air as they went. But not a
sound escaped them. At the bottom they picked themselves up and plunged
into the blackness beyond the limits of the torch’s radiance.
[Illustration: “At the pole stood a boy with upraised arm.”]
Kendall extinguished the light and stood for a moment in silent
laughter as he heard the creak of the carriage, followed the next
instant by the sound of galloping hoofs on the road. Then silence fell
again. Still chuckling, he retraced his steps across The Prospect. He
had had some idea at first of hiding the can of paint, but he didn’t
know where to put it. And, now that the enemy was routed in disorder,
it behooved him to make good his own escape from a precarious position.
He wondered whether they had succeeded in putting any of the paint on
the pole before their flight, but decided that he had better not show
the light again. He would learn to-morrow.
He crept silently back to Clarke and breathed a sigh of relief when
he found the door ajar as he had left it. There had always been the
possibility that someone would come prowling around, find it undone
and relock it. But fortune, it seemed, was with him to-night. He pushed
open the door, entered, closed it behind him and noiselessly turned
the key again. Then he faced around and discovered himself looking
startledly into the eyes of the Assistant Principal!
Mr. Collins was clothed in a crimson bathgown, the tasseled cords of
which he was still in the act of tying with fumbling fingers. He had
evidently just arisen from bed, and hurriedly. Kendall, the electric
torch still clasped in his left hand, remained stock-still and regarded
the brilliant apparition with open mouth. It was the apparition that
spoke first.
“Where have you been?” asked Mr. Collins sternly.
“Just――just outside, sir,” replied Kendall vaguely.
“What for?”
“Just――just to look around, sir; to get the air. I――I wasn’t sleepy,
please, sir, and I――I took a walk.”
“Hm; really?” Mr. Collins’s tone was doubting. “Didn’t you know it was
against the rules to leave the building after ten o’clock?”
“Yes, sir, but I――I guess I forgot it.”
“You guess you forgot it, eh? What’s that in your hand?”
Kendall looked down, saw the torch and regarded it with a vast
surprise, turning it this way and that in an evident effort to account
for it. Finally, though,
“That’s an electric torch, sir,” he answered.
“Hm; so I see. What’s your name?”
“Burtis, sir.”
“What’s your room?”
“Twenty-one, sir.”
“Go to it. I’ll talk with you to-morrow. Wait!”
Kendall “waited” abruptly, almost losing his balance.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No one else with you?”
“No, sir.”
“Quite certain of that?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Very well. Don’t let this happen again, Curtis.”
“Burtis, please, sir. No, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Hm! Good night!”
But the encounter with Mr. Collins couldn’t spoil the adventure.
Unaided and alone, reflected Kendall as he mounted the stairs to his
room, he had met the enemy and repulsed it! He had saved the school
from vandalism! He, Kendall Burtis, had done it, and from now on they
could no longer disregard his existence. He was a hero!
Of course, his thoughts continued as he crawled into bed without
disturbing the rhythmic breathing of his roommate, of course Mr.
Collins might lecture him about leaving the building after lock-up,
but what was a lecture in view of his triumph? Eventually Kendall fell
asleep to dream of the night’s events in weird parody, little recking
of the mischievous possibilities of what is known as Circumstantial
Evidence!