Barry placed the drawer upon the desk and carefully lifted the contents out, while Toby stood by waiting to pounce. But the moth wasn’t there. “He’s in the next one,” said Toby. “He flew out over the back, I guess. Let me look, Barry, will you? Gee! I don’t want to lose him!” Barry, who had been seated, arose and Toby took over the search. One by one, very cautiously, he took out the four drawers and went through them while the others looked on and offered encouraging advice. Foiled, Toby squatted, and stared into the dim depths of the cubby that had held the drawers. “Got a match?” he demanded feverishly. Instead of a match, Barry offered a pocket torch and Toby got to his knees and continued the hunt. At that moment the doorbell tinkled and the boys heard Betty responding to the summons. Toby’s antics had rather palled by now and both Barry and Peaches lent their attention to the voices at the front door. For a week a ring at the doorbell had sent their thoughts to the subject of police. Consequently Toby’s grunts and remarks, somewhat smothered because he had introduced his head into the recess, went unheeded. “Gee! he ain’t here!” said Toby, mournfully. “Not unless he――Ugh! Gosh!――Maybe there’s a crack―― Say, here’s something stuck up here in a splinter, Barry.” Receiving no response, Toby dropped the something behind him into the nearer drawer and went on with his muttering: “Gee! I’ll bet I’ve lost him!” There was a loud sneeze, followed by a sharp _bang_ as Toby’s head came in contact with a crossbar. “Ow!” cried the explorer in an agonized voice. “Say, there’s more dust in here――” “Shut up, Toby!” warned Peaches, peremptorily. There were firm footsteps in the hall and then Betty knocked and said, “Barry, Major Loring is here!” After a minute Peaches dragged Toby with him out of the room, Toby going most unwillingly and with many backward glances. “Say, Barry, if you find him don’t try to get him, will you? Let me know, will you? I want――” “Shut up, and say good night!” hissed Peaches. “Yeah,” responded Toby confusedly. “Good night.” Then the door closed and the Major, slightly amused, turned his gaze to Barry. The latter, still too surprised by the visit to be at ease, gave a halting explanation of the disordered appearance of the room. Major Loring listened smilingly but absently, his gaze traversing the barely furnished quarters. When Barry had ended, the Major said: “I see you don’t use a typewriter, Locke.” “Sir? A typewriter? No, sir, I don’t.” “A good many of the fellows do,” said the coach. “It seems to be coming to be the style to have them. I suppose you can write on them.” Barry shook his head apologetically. “No, sir, I can’t. I’ve never owned one.” “Still,” persisted the visitor, “I suppose Jones has one you could use if you wanted to. Or this Nott boy.” “Toby has one. He bought it a little while ago from some fellow who’s selling them here in school.” “Ever tried it?” asked the Major.