With which patriotic resolve we resumed our seats and occupied the interval with auditing the accounts of the club--a painful and tedious operation which gave rise to much dispute and recrimination, particularly when it was discovered that on paper we were 25 shillings to the good, whereas in the treasurer's pocket we were 6 shillings to the bad. The treasurer had a bad quarter of an hour of it, till it was discovered that the auditors had accidentally forgotten to carry the total of one column to the top of the next, an oversight which nearly brought about the dissolution of the club, so fierce was the storm which raged over it. More than half an hour was spent over these proceedings, and we began to wonder why Tempest had not come back. It was certain he must have been stopped by somebody, or he would have been back in ten minutes. Had he and Jarman had an encounter? Was Mr Jarman at that moment begging for quarter? or was our man answering for his riot to the head master? Half an hour passed, three-quarters, an hour. Then, just as we were giving him up, hurried footsteps came across the quadrangle, and Tempest, with pale face and disordered guise, carrying his blazer on his arm, entered and passed rapidly to his room. His countenance was too forbidding for us to venture on our promised cheer. Something unusual had happened. How we longed to know what it was! I was thrust forward to follow him to his study, on the chance of ascertaining, and was on the point of obeying, when a terrific sound broke the silence of the night, and sent us back with white, rigid faces in a heap into the faggery. The sound proceeded from the direction of the gymnasium--first of all, a dull, spasmodic thunder; then a fierce burst, followed almost immediately by two tremendous reports which shook us to the soles of our boots. It reminded me of that fearful night at Dangerfield, when Tempest-- I clung on to Langrish, who was next to me, in mute despair, and Langrish in turn embraced Trimble. "Those," gasped the voice of Coxhead, "were the--ginger--beer--bottles. What--shall--we--do?" "Cut to bed sharp!" said the resolute though quavering voice of Warminster, "and lie low." "There won't be much of him left," whispered Trimble, "that's one good thing," as we huddled off our clothes in the dark in the dormitory. It was a gleam of comfort, certainly. Effigies of that kind, when they do go off, leave few marks of identity behind them. "Who let it off?" I ventured to ask. "No one knew about it except us." "Look out! There's somebody coming!" It was Mr Sharpe, who looked in, candle in hand, to see if any one had been disturbed by the noise. But every one was sleeping peacefully, blissfully unconscious that anything had happened. "Narrow shave that," said Langrish, when the master had retired. "I say," said Trimble. "I wonder if Tempest--" Here he pulled up, but a muffled whistle of dismay took up his meaning.