Dear Reader, have you ever personally conducted five active and anxious
rats across a campus inhabited by hostile faculties at nine o’clock at
night? If so, you will properly appreciate the difficulties that beset
Jonesie, Pinky and Tubby Bumstead. Unfortunately Perkins’s stable lay
to the west of the school and Steve Cook was domiciled directly to the
east and the campus lay between. To have made a detour would have added
some eight or nine blocks to the journey. Hence it was decided that in
this case a straight line between two points was not only the shortest
but wisest course. With the rats confined in two wire cages, which were
in turn wrapped in oat bags, and Ace wriggling excitedly in Jonesie’s
arms, only partly hidden by another sack, the three conspirators
crossed the campus, keeping to the darker paths and avoiding buildings
as far as possible. They walked hurriedly but yet cautiously, and
as they proceeded strange sounds escaped from beneath the enfolding
bags, sounds that, had they been heard by a faculty member, would
undoubtedly have occasioned curiosity. Now it is a well-known fact that
faculties are the most curious persons in the wide, wide world; always
introducing their noses into other people’s affairs, always athirst for
knowledge that can profit them but little. Consequently the three boys
were extremely desirous, not to say anxious, that their progress should
go unnoticed. So much so, in fact, that more than once the sight of a
suspicious figure across the yard caused them to pause in the shadow
of a tree or building and, in a silence broken only by the agitated
squeals of the rats and the excited and stertorous breathing of Ace,
await the disappearance of the dim and uncertain form. There were many
anxious moments during that passage of the enemy’s country, but in
the end sheer audacity won and they climbed the further fence――there
were obvious reasons why gateways were to be avoided――and hurried
across into the gloom of a side street. From there on it was plainer
sailing. One or two townsfolk, having passed the trio, turned to peer
suspiciously after them, but no one challenged. At Mrs. Sharp’s luck
again befriended them. When they opened the front door the hall was
empty and six leaps took them up the stairs, from the summit of which
they gained Steve’s room without detection.
The apartment presented a strangely altered appearance. The furniture
had been moved against the walls, leaving the center of the room
carpeted with a worn and stained straw-matting, clear and unobstructed.
Occupying points of vantage atop the desk and the bureau and strung out
along the window-seat, was the audience. The audience, representative
patrons of sport from the Upper and Lower Middle classes of Randall’s
School, greeted the arrival of the trio with unrestrained delight, so
unrestrained that Jonesie harshly instructed them to “cut it out!”
“Let’s see ’em,” begged Steve and Chick Allen, and the audience climbed
down from their reserved seats and clustered about while Pinky and
Tubby proudly removed the wrappings and exhibited five badly frightened
rats.
“Gee,” said Pill Farnham dubiously, “they aren’t very big, are they? I
thought――――”
“You thought they were racoons,” interrupted Jonesie scathingly.
“They’re big enough; don’t you worry. Look at that old gray fellow. Bet
you he will put up a peach of a fight!”
“Your dog doesn’t seem awfully interested in ’em,” remarked Pigeon
Brown. Which was a fact, since Ace, having been liberated, was dodging
in and out of the displaced furniture, sniffing and wagging the stump
of his tail, but apparently quite unaware of the presence of the rats.
Jonesie scowled upon him and demanded his attention, but the terrier
was too much interested in the contents of the waste-basket to heed
the summons. After a brief but interesting chase, Pinky dragged Ace
from under the bureau, to which place he had retired with a banana
peel. Ace, confronted with the rats, put his head on one side, pricked
up his ears when the rodents squealed at sight of him and wagged
his tail amiably. After that he gazed trustingly and inquiringly at
Jonesie and seemed to be asking permission to continue his interesting
investigation of the premises. Pinky’s firm grip on his collar denied
him, however, and Pill Farnham chuckled.
“Bet you he never saw a rat before in his life, fellows!” said Pill.
Jonesie faced him indignantly. “Didn’t he?” he inquired with deep
irony. “He’s killed more rats than you ever dreamed of.” Pill tried to
state that he was not accustomed to dreaming of rats, but Jonesie went
on with growing indignation. “You don’t expect a dog that’s seen as
many rats as he has to throw a fit, do you? You wait till we let ’em
out! Then you’ll see whether he can kill rats or not! Only thing I’m
bothering about is whether we oughtn’t to let ’em all out at once. I
dare say one or two at a time won’t be any fun for him.”
“It’ll be more fun for us, though,” responded Steve, climbing back to
the top of the table and carefully removing his feet from proximity to
the floor. “Let her go, Jonesie!”
“Are we all here?” asked Jonesie, looking about. “Where’s Sparrow?”
“Isn’t coming,” answered young Fletcher. “Said he had a headache. Told
me to tell you.”
“Headache!” jeered Jonesie. “Too lazy to walk, I guess! All right,
fellows. Get out of the way now. Which trap shall we open first, Pinky?”
“This one,” replied Pinky, pushing forward the cage which held two rats.
“We-ell.” Jonesie studied the scene of combat. “Now when I open the
thing you let Ace loose. Where are you going?”
“Just――just over here,” murmured Pinky, reaching behind him for the
bureau.
“Oh, don’t be such a coward! A rat won’t hurt you. Now, then, all
ready? Say, for the love of Mike, turn him toward the cage, can’t you?
Here, Ace? Sick ’em, sick ’em, sir!”
“How many are you going to let out?” asked Chick from the safe altitude
of the window seat.
“Just one this time,” replied Jonesie, struggling with the door of the
cage. “All ready now, Pinky!”
But Jonesie was mistaken. With the door open the rats showed a strange
disinclination to leave their prison and face the enemy, even though
the enemy was showing not the slightest degree of animosity――or even
animation!
“Get ’em out!” commanded Jonesie.
“Sick ’em!” cried the patrons of sport in unison.
Ace looked inquiringly at Jonesie and then about the room. Pinky shoved
him forward. This Ace took to be an invitation to play, and immediately
dashed at Pinky and licked his nose, thereby upsetting Pinky’s balance.
At the moment when Pinky’s feet were furthest from the floor and Ace
was dancing about his struggling form, the rats agreed on a sortie and
dashed from the cage together.
“There they go!” shrieked the excited audience. “Sick ’em, pup! Go
after ’em, you fool dog!”
[Illustration: “‘There they go! Sick ’em, pup! Go after ’em, you fool
dog!’”]
But Ace was having such a fine time jumping upon Pinky, who was vainly
trying to get his feet under him again, that he neither saw the rats
nor heard the commands. It was only when Jonesie reached down and
delivered a sounding slap on his brown spot that Ace awoke to the fact
that possibly he had made a mistake. By that time the rats were gone
from sight. Jeers and laughter emanated from the audience. Pinky,
arising, red of face and annoyed, was confronted by an indignant
Jonesie.
“You old fool, you!” cried Jonesie. “Why didn’t you pay attention?
Didn’t I tell you they were coming?”
“Well, didn’t you see your fool dog knocked me over?” inquired Pinky
wrathfully. “Why didn’t you keep them in for a second?”
“How could I keep them in when I’d opened the door? If you can’t do
your share of this decently, why, say so!”
“Quit your jawing,” advised Steve, “and catch the rats. It won’t be any
fun now, though, because we won’t be able to see him kill ’em.”
“Kill ’em!” jeered Pill. “That pup couldn’t kill a straw hat! If I was
you, Jonesie, I’d put him in the closet. If a rat got at him he might
get hurt.”
“Is that so?” responded Jonesie heatedly. “You’ll get hurt if you give
me any more of your lip! Which――which way did they go, fellows?”
The replies were confusing. Every member of the audience insisted on a
different locality as harboring the rats. Jonesie looked disgusted.
“Seems to me you fellows might have watched them and seen which way
they went,” he said. “Got an umbrella, Steve?”
By moving the table slightly young Fletcher, who was the smallest
there, was able to slide through into the closet. After that the hunt
began. Jonesie used the umbrella, and the rest of the audience armed
themselves with whatever they could find: tennis rackets, hockey
sticks, even a ruler. Under chairs, table, bureau the weapons were
poked and flourished. Ace, recovering from the shock of chastisement,
lent eager assistance. The noise became deafening. Once one of the
rats appeared for a brief moment on top the bureau, left it just ahead
of a racket hurriedly aimed by Pigeon, landed on the mantelpiece and
disappeared again behind the Morris chair. The only fatality was a
photograph frame. Out came the Morris chair, there was a squeal and the
rat whisked behind the bureau. Out came the bureau then, Ace barking
frantically and wagging his stumpy tail in a veritable paroxysm of
delight. This was a real game! Confusion reigned supreme. All thought
of secrecy had flown. The excitement of the chase gripped them all.
Shouts and cheers rent the air, Ace yelped and barked shrilly, sticks
banged at chair legs, furniture was whisked about on grumbling casters
and ten excited patrons of sport pursued the prey with relentless vigor
and enthusiasm. The waste basket spread its varied contents across
the floor, and even the pictures on the walls became imbued with the
contagion and danced themselves askew.
At this moment there was a shrill and resentful expression of grief
from Ace, who, all but the stump of his tail hidden from sight beneath
the Morris chair, had encountered one of the rats behind the radiator.
A cornered rat will fight, and it was this discovery that brought the
yelp of pain from the terrier. The alacrity with which he backed out
from under the chair was remarkable. Doubtless his sole desire was to
remove himself from the vicinity of the painful indignity and consider
his wounded nose. It is not presumable that he entertained any designs
on Tubby Bumstead. What followed must be laid to Chance. In retreating
from beneath the chair Ace unfortunately obtruded his hind quarters in
the path of Tubby, who, armed with a hockey stick, was in full cry.
Tubby, being, as his nickname suggests, somewhat obese, was not able
to recover from the collision with the grace and celerity of a lither
youth. To save himself Tubby dropped his weapon and grabbed at the
arm of the Morris chair. Now it so happened that a few moments before
someone had thoughtfully transferred the unopened cage containing the
three rats in reserve from the floor to that particular arm of the
chair. It would be, perhaps, interesting to pause here and speculate
as to the thoughts and emotions which possessed those three rats as,
elevated to a position of unrestricted view, they watched the scene
before them. But there is no time. Tubby’s frantic reach for the
support of the chair dislodged the cage. The cage, in falling, struck
the already nervous Ace on top of the head. Ace, now thoroughly undone,
yielded to blind, unreasoning terror, a terror which became absolute
panic when the cage, rebounding from head to floor, threw open its
door and delivered into the confusion its three prisoners. That was
too much for Ace. With one wild and piercing howl he fled. As it was
not possible for him to flee in a straight line, he fled in a circle.
For one brief but highly colored moment life became a kaleidoscopic
nightmare of flying rats, dogs and boys. To be sure, there was but one
dog, but he rotated so rapidly that it was difficult to believe that he
was not in reality a revolving procession of dogs. And ever as he went
he howled. And ever as he howled he collided with someone’s legs, and
the owner of the legs toppled ungracefully to earth. A Futurist could
have won immortal fame by transferring that scene to canvas! And then,
at the zenith of the glorious orgy of movement and sound, the room door
opened and The Terror stood revealed in all his majesty and severity!
Now Ace, as it happened, had reached a position in his orbit about
midway between window seat and door when the latter opened. There was
no hesitation on the part of the revolving body. Leaving its path at a
tangent it hurled itself at the doorway. It was not Ace’s fault that
Mr. Williams, Instructor in Modern Languages, was stationed midway
between lintel and lintel. Doubtless Ace tried his best to pass to one
side of The Terror’s none too sturdy legs. That he did not succeed is
not surprising when we consider the speed at which he was going and the
fact that he had been deprived of all save a scant two inches of his
rudder. Mr. Williams crumpled against the banisters across the narrow
hall with a loud and expressive grunt and Ace, rounding the post,
hurled himself down the stairs. Mrs. Sharp, nervously eavesdropping
halfway up the flight, had a momentary vision of a white streak
plunging down upon her, shrieked hysterically and rolled slowly and,
because of her well-padded condition, not uncomfortably to the bottom.
Ace disappeared into the night.
The Terror recovered his feet and his dignity and regained his position
in the doorway. Before him ten boys and five rats maintained silence
and frozen attitudes. The five rats were not in sight. Nor was one of
the ten boys. A long moment of portentous stillness reigned. Then The
Terror, somewhat pale as yet, pronounced the names of the nine visible
patrons of sport in a voice which, while still a trifle shaky, was as
icy cold as a blast from the Pole.
“You will all,” concluded The Terror, “report at the Office to-morrow
morning. And now return to your rooms at once.”
One by one they recovered their caps from the confusion and filed past
him and down the stairs and into the night. Only Steve remained in
view. Then, with a final glare, Mr. Williams followed. Simultaneously
from behind the bureau appeared a cautious head.
“Gone?” asked Jonesie hoarsely.
Steve nodded gloomily.
Jonesie extracted himself from concealment and crawled out of the
_débris_. In one hand he held by the tail a large gray rat, quite dead.
“Where’d you get it?” asked Steve with a brief flash of interest.
“Back there.” Jonesie nodded toward the bureau. “I fell on him when I
dived in.”
“Somewhere,” responded Steve bitterly, “there are four more of the
things, and I’ve got to sleep here with ’em!”