Then, as he was summoned to practice he gave the matter no more thought until that evening, when he set off alone to see Professor Clatter, and get the pink paint. Pete and Cap wanted to accompany him, but Bill declared that there was safety in small numbers, and that he preferred to go alone. He found his old friend getting ready for an evening performance, filling his gasoline torches, looking over his stock of supplies, and tuning the banjo with which, and his not unmelodious voice, he drew a throng about the gaily painted wagon. “Ha, my young friend, back again!” cried the professor. “Greetings to you. And where are the brothers?” “Studying, I expect, or making a pretense to.” “Good again! Ah, the lamp of learning burns brightly when one is young. What ho! Mercurio! Some more gasoline for this torch! We must have light!” Then the professor having ordered about an imaginary slave, proceeded to fill the torch himself. “Speaking of lamps of learning,” broke in Bill, thinking this was a good time to announce his errand, “we’re going to do a little illumination over at Westfield on our own account. How much of that pink paint have you, Professor?” “Pink paint—you mean my Matchless Complexion Tinting Residuum?” “I guess that’s it. We need some.” “For a masked ball?” “For a bronze statue,” replied Bill, and he proceeded to relate the details of the plot. The professor listened carefully. Bill told everything, and at length the traveling vendor asked: “Did you and your brothers think of this scheme, Bill?” “No, as a matter of fact Bob Chapin proposed it.” “Ah, I suppose he is one of the leading spirits when it comes to these plots of—er—innocent mischief?” “No, I never knew him to get up anything of the kind before. And that’s the funny part of it. He never takes a hand in ’em. But now he comes to us with the idea, and he’s going to help carry it out. I never knew he had gumption enough to break out this way. It’s a good one, though.” “And doesn’t it strike you as odd that he suddenly breaks out now?” asked the professor in rather a curious voice. “Odd? Dow do you mean?” “I mean do you think he had any object in it?” “Object in it?” “Yes, to get you boys interested and—” “Why, he’s interested himself. He’s going to help decorate Pop Weston.” “I know, but you say he never did anything of the kind before,” objected Mr. Clatter, looking sharply at Bill. “No.” “And isn’t it rather late in the college year for him to begin?” “It is—say, look here, Professor Clatter! Do you know anything about this?” demanded Bill. “No, only what my common sense tells me. But I gather that there is some feeling against you because of baseball matters.” “A little—yes, Mersfeld is sore, but—” “Wait a minute. Now, if some of your enemies could get you into a game like this, and then desert you, and let the whole blame fall on you, or, even, we’ll say, tip off the college authorities, to use a slang term—wouldn’t they make trouble for you.”