I stood gaping in an imbecile way, and said nothing. "I know whose it is. He had it up here once before." "I say," gulped I, "can't you let the water in again?" Dick had not considered this. His triumph had been letting the water out. However, he would see what could be done. We went down into the shrubbery. About a foot of water lay on the ground, promising great fertility some day, but decidedly muddy-looking to-day. "The thing will be to bung up the hole first," said Dicky. So we set to work to hammer up the end of the zinc pipe and stuff the aperture round with sods and stones. I even sacrificed my cap to the good cause. The bell began to ring before we had well completed the task. "That ought to keep any more from running out," said Dicky. "If we're lucky, the water will come in on its own hook at the other end." The theory was not exactly scientific, for scientific men do not believe in luck. Still, it was the best we could think of as we turned to go. "Stop a bit," said I, as we were leaving. "May as well tidy up a bit in there before we go, eh?" "In there" was the bed of the pond. "It might look better," said Dick, turning up his trousers. We decently interred the pistol in the mud, and raised a small heap of stones to keep it down; and then cautiously obliterating our footsteps in the mud, we made for _terra firma_, and scuttled back to school as fast as our legs would carry us. Fortunately we entered unobserved, and disencumbered ourselves of our muddy boots without attracting attention to their condition. Ten minutes later we were deep in our work in the big schoolroom. Preparation that night was a solemn and gloomy ceremony. Dicky and I kept catching one another's eyes, and then glancing on to where the Dux, cool as a cucumber, sat turning over the leaves of his lexicon. "He's got a cheek of his own, has Dux," said I to myself. "If I didn't know it was him," signalled the ungrammatical Dicky across the room, "I should never have believed it." "You may make as many faces as you like at young Brown," glared Tempest at me, "but if I catch you making any more at me, your mother will need some extra pocket-handkerchiefs." "Jones," observed Dr Plummer aloud, "a double _poena_ for aggravated inattention." All right. I was getting pretty full up with engagements for one day, and began to think bed-time would be rather a relief. It came at last. In the dormitory Ramsbottom successfully interfered with conversation by patrolling the chamber until the boys were asleep. No one doubted that he had been set to the task by the head master, and it augured rather badly for the resumption of the inquest next day. However, even patrols go to sleep sometimes, and when I woke early next morning the usher had vanished to his own chamber. My first thought was not Hector, or the doctor, or my _poenas_, or the Dux, but the pond. How, I wondered, was it getting on?