It was during the geography hour. Mr. Bull had asked Nixon to define a watershed. Nixon, who upon the previous evening had been too much occupied with his duties as Vice-President of the Anarchists to do much Prep, had replied with a seraphic smile that a watershed was "a place to shelter from the rain." As an improvised effort the answer seemed to him an extremely good one; but Mr. Bull had promptly left his seat, addressed Nixon as a "cheeky little hound," and committed the assault complained of. "This sort of thing," observed Rumford tertius, the President, "can't go on. What shall we do?" "We might saw one of the legs of his chair through," suggested one of the members. "Who's going to do it?" inquired the President. "We'll only get slain." Silence fell, as it usually does when the question of belling the cat arrives at the practical stage. "We could report him to the Head," said another voice. "We might get him the sack for assault--even quod! We could show Nixon's head to him. It would be a sound scheme to make it bleed a bit before we took him up." The speaker fingered a heavy ruler lovingly, but Mr. Nixon edged coldly out of reach. "Certainly," agreed the President, "Bashan ought to be stopped knocking us about in form." "I'd rather have one clout over the earhole," observed an Anarchist who so far had not spoken, "than be taken along to Bashan's study and given six of the best. That is what the result would be. Hallo, Stinker, what's that?" The gentleman addressed--a morose, unclean, and spectacled youth of scientific proclivities--was the latest recruit to the gang. He had been admitted at the instance of Master Nixon, who had pointed out that it would be a good thing to enrol as a member some one who understood "Chemistry and Stinks generally." He could be used for the manufacture of bombs, and so on. Stinker had produced from his pocket a corked test-tube, tightly packed with some dark substance. "What's that?" inquired the Anarchists in chorus. (They nearly always talked in chorus.) "It's a new kind of explosive," replied the inventor with great pride. "I hope it's better than that new kind of stinkpot you invented for choir-practice," remarked a cynic from the corner of the study. "That was a rotten fraud, if you like! It smelt more like lily-of-the-valley than any decent stink." "Dry up, Ashley minor!" rejoined the inventor indignantly. "This is a jolly good bomb. I made it to-day in the Lab, while The Badger was trying to put out a bonfire at the other end." "Where does the patent come in?" inquired the President judicially. "The patent is that it doesn't go off all at once." "We know _that_!" observed the unbelieving Ashley. "Do you chuck it or light it?" asked Nixon. "You light it. At least, you shove it into the fire, and it goes off in about ten minutes. You see the idea? If Bashan doesn't see us put anything into the form-room fire, he will think it was something wrong with the coal."