The feast was over, the remains cleared away and, one by one, or in couples, the guests departed, with intervals between the leavings, so that too much noise might not be created. The last one had gone—the room was in fairly good shape, albeit bottles and cans had been piled into closets until the recesses were almost overflowing—there to stay until such time as they could be smuggled out. “Well; how about it?” asked Bill. “It was all right—even the interruption,” replied Cap. There came a sudden knock on the door. The brothers, who were not the only occupants of their adjoining rooms looked at each other with fear in their eyes. “Gentlemen, are you in bed?” demanded the unmistakable voice of the proctor. “Ye—yes!” exclaimed Bill, making an appealing motion to his brothers. With a single motion they threw themselves, dressed as they were, upon the covers, while Bill extinguished the single candle. “We’re in bed, Mr. McNibb.” “I’m glad to hear it,” was the grim retort. “I thought I saw a light through the key hole.” “No—no, sir,” declared Pete. The room was in darkness but the smell of a recently extinguished candle was only too evident. “Very well,” and the proctor passed on, leaving the Smith boys to recover of near-heart-failure as best they might. The banquet given by our heroes was the talk of the school for several days—wireless talk, of course, for it would never do to have it come to the ears of those in authority. Those who had not been favored with an invitation were wondering how they could cultivate the good graces of our friends, and the lucky ones who had attended were wondering when there would be another spread. There was hard baseball practice the day following the little affair, and, for some reason Bill was a little off in his pitching. “You’ll either have to get a new pair of glasses,” grimly remarked the coach, “or you’ll have to cut out your midnight suppers, Smith.” “All right,” agreed the pitcher, for the word of Mr. Windam was law. The scrub, on which Mersfeld was pitching was close to beating the Varsity, over which fact the deposed twirler was gloating. “If things go on this way,” he said to his crony North, as they left the field, the two again being friendly, “I’ll be back in the box once more.” “I’d be glad to help you,” was the answer, for though North did not exactly care for Mersfeld, whom he felt was not in his “class,” yet the bully had formed an unreasoning hate toward our heroes, and would have been glad to see them run out of the school. “If anything turns up by which we can get back at those fellows, count me in.” “All right,” replied Mersfeld, duly grateful. The two strolled across the campus, and, as they got behind a clump of bushes, North saw a small, timid boy, one of the students at a preparatory school connected with Westfield, passing along. He called to the lad, whom he knew slightly: “Here, Harvey, carry my glove and bat, I’m tired,” for North had been playing on the scrub.