Impunity encourages. One day at recess, some scapegrace made an obnoxious mixture in an open dish by means of iron sulphide and hydrochloric acid, and fled for his life, leaving the laboratory door open. The fumes descended the stairways and reached the noses of innocent sufferers below. Mr. Westcott and Mr. Cary arrived at the laboratory simultaneously, hot on the scent, and took counsel together. Later in the day Mr. Westcott called the laboratory classes into his room and demanded the culprit. No one volunteering, he explained the danger and wrong of fooling in the laboratory, and declared that he should punish severely any further misdemeanor, even if it were necessary to inflict the penalty on the whole class. As Mr. Westcott was not given to idle threats, there was seriousness on the top floor—for a time. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CHAPTER XVIII THE SHOOTING MATCH SATURDAYS Roger usually had to himself. On these days he took advantage of his freedom to visit the library or a museum, or strolled about the city, entertaining himself with the shop windows and the mob of bargain-hunters. Occasionally he hunted up some landmark of history which appealed to his interest, turning aside on the way for a glimpse of the waterside or the markets or the queer foreign quarter where the native-born American feels himself a trespasser and is grateful for the presence of a policeman a block away. As he was new to the fascinating variety of city scenes, his attention was often caught by objects which his town-bred companions passed without noticing, either because they lacked curiosity, or because familiarity with city streets had made them indifferent. On two or three occasions, while traversing an irregular old square, Roger had noticed a second-story sign bearing the words: “Professor Pillar, Magicians’ Supplies and Novelties. Outfits for Professionals and Amateurs. Come In and See Us.” One morning in February he decided to accept this invitation. He found himself in a little dusty room packed full of juggler’s paraphernalia. A friendly old man with very nimble fingers greeted him warmly, and pressed upon him various tricks and trinkets with such persuasiveness that Roger left the wizard’s cave poorer by a dollar and a half, and richer by a variety of queer acquisitions. When he reached his room, he spread out his purchases on the desk before him and assured himself with some heat that it was unquestionably true that a fool and his money are soon parted. While he was thus making himself uncomfortable with reproaches, Mike happened in and became enthusiastic over the collection. “I’ll sell them to you,” offered Roger. Mike considered. “How much?” “Just what I gave for them.” “You wouldn’t do that unless you wanted to get rid of ’em,” remarked Mike, shrewdly. “I’ll give you a dollar for the lot.”