As usual, one afternoon after two o’clock call-over, he went off ostensibly for his run in running drawers and shirt, his white legs and arms gleaming in the winter sunshine, as he dashed down the hill with his hounds. But this time he deserted them at the foot of the hill, skirted the path along the Rocks in the direction of Whetstone and returned to the school within half-an-hour by way of the steep-sloping south field, which faces Monday Port and which the boys seldom played upon. Unobserved, for his schoolmates were mostly far afield, he reached Standerland, tiptoed through the corridors to his room, and once inside hid himself carefully behind the curtains that screened the door into his bedroom. He waited impatiently a long dull half-hour, and several times was on the point of giving up; but for all his impulsiveness, Kit was doggedly persistent, and was quite capable of waiting there for an hour or more several times a week. And at last, to his joy, he heard a soft step in the corridor. Some one had paused before his door, and was evidently listening for sounds within. Then there was a gentle tap. Kit was still as a mouse. Another tap, another wait, then the door opened softly, and some one slipped in. Kit scarcely breathed. He could not see who it was, but he heard the intruder close the door gently behind him and stand for a moment, as Kit thought, looking furtively around him. He even came to the door of the bedroom, brushing the curtains back of which Kit was concealed as he passed. Then, satisfied at last that he was safe and alone, he went quickly to Kit’s desk, opened the drawers and thrust malicious disturbing hands amongst their contents. Then he drew forth a bundle of papers. Kit heard him rattle the ink-well, and his quick ears caught the sound of the patter of the ink drops as they fell on the papers. Instantly he leaped forward, with one bound was across the room, and had grabbed the vandal by the collar. It was Jacob Finch. For a moment, as Kit recognized the intruder, he was speechless with surprise. Finch stood as if he were paralyzed, in the position in which Kit had grabbed him. Only the ink-well had fallen from his fingers, and the black fluid was trickling from the desk onto the floor. His face was ashy, his eyes glared like those of a rat in a corner. In a second Kit recovered himself. [Illustration: HE OPENED THE DRAWERS AND THRUST MALICIOUS DISTURBING HANDS AMONG THE CONTENTS] “You little hound,” he hissed, his anger blazing forth. “So it’s you that’s been rough-housing my room!” Finch could not utter a word. “Speak up, you cur. Bah! there’s no need. I’ve got you in the act. You’re caught red-handed, you sneak!” He advanced threateningly, determined to administer instantly the sound thrashing he felt was too good for the palsied little wretch before him. As he grasped Finch’s collar the second time, the boy let out a weird shrill wail like the cry of an animal.