“It seems to be like some deadly gas,” hoarsely said the voice of the second speaker. “Wait a minute, and I will find the lamp.” “What are you going to do, professor?” asked the third individual. “Surely you are not going to----” “Light the lamp--yes, sir.” “But it is very dangerous. This room does seem filled with gas. It might produce combustion if you struck a match here.” “Nonsense, my dear Babbitt!” exclaimed the one recognized by his voice as Prof. Such. “Do light a lamp. I wish to see if any of those noisy rascals are present. We could hear them plainly enough from the street, although it is strangely quiet in the house now.” Prof. Such generally carried a cane with a brad in the end of it. It was for the purpose of aiding his somewhat unsteady feet at all times of the year. The boys under the bed could hear that cane jabbing about on the floor in a nervous manner. Somebody produced a match and attempted to light it, but broke it in two. Another was produced and struck. Then the three professors looked about for the lamp, but could find none. “Dear, dear!” fussed the voice of Such. “This is quite exasperating. Can you see anyone, Babbitt?” “Not a soul,” was the reply; “but the rascals may be in hiding. If we catch them, they shall suffer severely for daring to do anything in defiance to the expressed order of the faculty.” “Quite right, professor--quite right. Some of them may be under the bed. I will feel about with my cane.” Then the cane with the brad in the end was thrust under the bed, and that brad was thrust into one after another of the students hiding there. Some of them started, but not one uttered a sound, although they longed to scream when they felt that sharp point. “I don’t seem to find anyone,” said the squeaky voice. “Light another match, Mower.” Another match was lighted, and the professor with the cane went round to the foot of the bed. Now it happened that Bruce Browning had attempted to crawl under the bed at that end, but had stuck fast after getting his head and shoulders under, and could not crawl farther or retreat, he was there in that uncomfortable position when Prof. Such came round. “Hold the match here, Mr. Mower,” directed the shrill voice of the near-sighted professor. “That is it.” “Have you discovered anything?” asked Mower’s voice. “No, no,” was the answer. “I thought so at first, but all I can see is a suit of clothes carelessly thrown down here. There it is, professor.” He jabbed the brad into something broad and round and fat. Then there was a wild howl and an upheaval of that bed, as if an earthquake had occurred. Up came Bruce Browning, crimson in the face, and rubbing with both hands a portion of his person usually hidden by the tails of his coat. “Confound you!” he roared. “I’m killed! You’ve stabbed me with that thing!” Then, with remarkable agility, he pranced past the three professors and slammed the door, shouting: