There was a tap at the door and Mike walked in. He was not alone. Those near enough to see, saw that he was accompanied by Jellicoe’s clock-work rat, which moved rapidly over the floor in the direction of the opposite wall. “May I fetch a book from my desk, sir?” asked Mike. “Very well--be quick, Jackson; we are busy.” Being interrupted in one of his addresses to the Brigade irritated Mr. Downing. The muffled cries grew more distinct. “What--is--that--noise?” shrilled Mr. Downing. “Noise, sir?” asked Mike, puzzled. “I think it’s something outside the window, sir,” said Stone helpfully. “A bird, I think, sir,” said Robinson. “Don’t be absurd!” snapped Mr. Downing. “It’s outside the door. Wilson!” “Yes, sir?” said a voice “off.” “Are you making that whining noise?” “Whining noise, sir? No, sir, I’m not making a whining noise.” “What _sort_ of noise, sir?” inquired Mike, as many Wrykynians had asked before him. It was a question invented by Wrykyn for use in just such a case as this. “I do not propose,” said Mr. Downing acidly, “to imitate the noise; you can all hear it perfectly plainly. It is a curious whining noise.” “They are mowing the cricket field, sir,” said the invisible Wilson. “Perhaps that’s it.” “It may be one of the desks squeaking, sir,” put in Stone. “They do sometimes.” “Or somebody’s boots, sir,” added Robinson. “Silence! Wilson?” “Yes, sir?” bellowed the unseen one. “Don’t shout at me from the corridor like that. Come in.” “Yes, sir!” As he spoke the muffled whining changed suddenly to a series of tenor shrieks, and the india-rubber form of Sammy bounded into the room like an excited kangaroo. Willing hands had by this time deflected the clockwork rat from the wall to which it had been steering, and pointed it up the alley-way between the two rows of desks. Mr. Downing, rising from his place, was just in time to see Sammy with a last leap spring on his prey and begin worrying it. Chaos reigned. “A rat!” shouted Robinson. The twenty-three members of the Brigade who were not earnest instantly dealt with the situation, each in the manner that seemed proper to him. Some leaped on to forms, others flung books, all shouted. It was a stirring, bustling scene. Sammy had by this time disposed of the clock-work rat, and was now standing, like Marius, among the ruins barking triumphantly. The banging on Mr. Downing’s desk resembled thunder. It rose above all the other noises till in time they gave up the competition and died away. Mr. Downing shot out orders, threats, and penalties with the rapidity of a Maxim gun.