Deering and Lawrence climbed in and joined him in an interested examination of the room. The structure, which contained only this one room, it may be said, had been built some years before by a gentleman of the neighborhood, who had literary tastes, and sought the quiet and seclusion of this spot for their development. Of late it had been disused, however, for a period of six or seven years. There was an old table, a few rickety chairs, and a strong-box, such as the boys used in their caves; aside from these no furniture of any description. The embers of a wood fire glowed on a great hearth at one side of the room. In a cupboard the boys found several soiled packs of cards, a pile of poker chips, and some empty cigarette boxes. “The real dope, I suppose,” Kit commented “is in the strong box, or hid some place outside. I reckon we can’t bust into it. What a silly lot of asses; if the prefects don’t get on to this, I’m a loser. But what a jolly old joint it is, eh?” “Rather,” said Jimmie. “There’s a pile of dishes in the sink yonder—they’ve evidently had a feed here this afternoon. There’s live coals on the hearth. Hmmm—smell the tobacco!” “Makes my mouth water,” was Kit’s prompt reply. “Let’s fire up, and have our feed here, and leave a note thankin’ ‘em for their hospitality. It isn’t likely that anybody will turn up this time o’ night. Get the bundle, Tony; and you, Jim, lend a hand while we start the fire.” The two began industriously to lay a fresh fire on the great andirons, while Tony made for the window. As he reached it there rose before him what seemed a monstrous head and body. He gave a cry of alarm. “Great heavens! who is it?” he screamed. “Don’t have a fit, Deering; it’s only Maclaren.” Tony immediately recovered his equilibrium. “Only Maclaren!” he repeated, in a voice of despair. “It’s all up, kiddos.” And he turned a white face to his amazed companions in the shanty. “Only Maclaren!” wailed Kit, as he threw his bundle of faggots on the hearth. “You poor fool, there’s Mr. Morris too.” It was a sorry procession that wound its way back to Standerland that cold January night. The Doctor was waiting for them in Mr. Morris’s study, grown a little impatient at the long delay. The clock had struck eleven before he heard the footsteps on the stairs. Mr. Morris had rather deprecated explanations on the way back, preferring to let the Head deal with the case himself; nor were the boys much inclined to talk. Upon their arrival at Standerland, Mr. Morris gave a succinct account of their capture, while the Doctor listened, a cloud gathering upon his brow. “Well,” he said sternly, as Morris finished, “what were you doing in Lovel’s Woods at this time of night? Lawrence, you may answer for the three.” “We skipped out just for the lark, sir.” “You have been in the habit of paying these visits to the Woods?” “Yes, sir—once in a while, sir,” Jimmie answered, in rather a doleful tone. “What have you done there?”