[Illustration: chapter title dec.--FURTHER PERSECUTION OF HICKEY] FURTHER PERSECUTION OF HICKEY Ever since the disillusionising encounter with Tabby, Hickey, like the obscure Bonaparte before the trenches of Toulon, walked moodily alone, absorbed in his own resolves, evolving his immense scheme of a colossal rebellion. Macnooder, alone, received the full confidence of the war _à outrance_ with the faculty which he gradually evolved. Macnooder was the man of peace, the Mazarin and the Machiavelli of the Dickinson. He risked nothing in action, but to his cunning mind with its legal sense of dangers to be met and avoided, were brought all the problems of conspiracies against the discipline of the school. Macnooder pronounced the scheme of a revolt heroic, all the more so that he saw an opportunity of essaying his strategy on large lines. "We must begin on a small scale, Hickey," he said wisely, "and keep working up to something really big." "I thought we might organise a secret society," said Hickey, ruminating, "something masonic, all sworn to silence and secrecy and all that sort of thing." "No," said Doc, "just as few as possible and no real confidants, Hickey; we'll take assistants as we need them." "What would you begin with?" "We must strike a blow at Tabby," said Macnooder. "We must show him that we don't propose to stand for any of his underhanded methods." "He needs a lesson," Hickey asserted savagely. "How about the skeleton?" "Humph!" said Hickey, considering; "perhaps, but that's rather old." "Not up the flag-pole--something new." "What is it, Doc?" Hickey looked at Macnooder with expectant admiration. "I noticed something yesterday in Memorial, during chapel, that gave me an idea," said Macnooder profoundly. "There is a great big ventilator in the ceiling; now there must be some way of getting to that and letting a rope down." Macnooder stopped and looked at Hickey. Hickey returned a look full of admiration, then by a mutual movement they clasped hands in ecstatic, sudden delight. That night they reconnoitred with the aid of a dark-lantern, borrowed from Legs Brownell of the Griswold, and the pass-keys, of which Hickey was the hereditary possessor. They found to their delight that there was in fact a small opening through which one boy could wriggle with difficulty. The attempt was fixed for the following night, and as a third boy was indispensable it was decided that etiquette demanded that the owner of the lantern should have the first call. At two o'clock that night Hickey and Macnooder stole down the creaking stairs, and out Sawtelle's window (the highway to the outer world). The night was misty, with a pleasant, ghostly chill that heightened measurably the delight of the adventure. In the shadow of the Griswold a third shivering form cautiously developed into the possessor of the dark-lantern.