And so we carried poor Plug back into the little room we had dragged him from, and put him into bed, put the knife in his flabby hand, and rushed out, locking him in. Then it was easier to work, the three of us. Decker couldn’t do anything, and we covered him up in his bedclothes. It took Brown and Sprat and me all night to tear the big linen sheets up and burn them bit by bit, and to scrub the floor. After that there was Decker in a sort of spasm, and we had to wash his hands and face, undress him, and wash his things like a baby. Five o’clock struck when we finally tumbled into bed, cold and miserable and horror-stricken; but if we could have slept otherwise, Decker’s moans would have kept us awake. We four oldest scholars breakfasted with the professor and Mrs. Stuffemwell. Plug usually waited. We knew he wouldn’t this morning--couldn’t--and every minute we expected to hear cries and calls of murder; but nothing of the sort happened. We dragged Decker up, and dressed him, and he went down with us, the worst-looking object you ever saw; but the professor didn’t notice his looks, Mrs. Stuffemwell, either, until when he said: “Will you be helped to steak, Decker?” he answered. “Heaven forgive me! No.” Then naturally says he: “Decker, are you going crazy?” We didn’t know what was coming now, but Brown up and answered: “If you please, I think Decker is very sick, and a little out of his mind since the nightmare.” “I thought it was Sprat who had the nightmare,” said Mrs. Stuffemwell. “We made a mistake in the dark. It was Decker,” said Brown. “Decker will do the ten extra problems, then, instead of Sprat,” said the professor. Just then in came the assistant. “Professor,” he said, speaking very fast, “the school fire is not made. Plug is not up yet.” “Poor old man,” said Mrs. Stuffemwell; “he is growing feeble. Let him sleep. One of the women will make the fire.” “They were saying he might have had a fit or something in the night, sir,” said the assistant. “His door’s locked.” “No, no. I trust not,” said the professor. “I trust not. A worthy old man that; and, by the way, his name is not Plug. Nicknames are very indiscreet, Mr. Ginger.” “Beg pardon. I should have said Thomas,” said Mr. Ginger. “I’ve no doubt Thomas is very well.” Poor Decker gave a groan. “Two more problems, Decker,” said the professor. “You must have another nightmare.” Then, breakfast being over, we went into the recitation room, and the professor read a chapter. It was that one where Cain kills Abel. When he got to where he says: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Decker tumbled over on the floor, and had to be taken out and have water put to his head. After a while, talking it over, we decided that the family knew that Plug was dead, and wanted to hide what they supposed to be his suicide from the school, for fear of losing scholars, and that eased us three a little; but nothing helped Decker.