ouse; for nothing is so still as a dormitory in mid-afternoon of a
midsummer term.

"It has been papered over till now." McTurk examined the little door.
"If we'd only known before!"

"I vote we go down and explore. No one will come up this time o' day. We
needn't keep _cave'_."

They crawled in, Stalky leading, drew the door behind them, and on all
fours embarked on a dark and dirty road full of plaster, odd shavings,
and all the raffle that builders leave in the waste room of a house.
The passage was perhaps three feet wide, and, except for the struggling
light round the edges of the cupboards (there was one to each dormer),
almost pitchy dark.

"Here's Macrea's house," said Stalky, his eye at the crack of the third
cupboard. "I can see Barnes's name on his trunk. Don't make such a row,
Beetle! We can get right to the end of the Coll. Come on!... We're in
King's house now--I can see a bit of Rattray's trunk. How these beastly
boards hurt one's knees!" They heard his nails scraping, on plaster.

"That's the ceiling below. Look out! If we smashed that the plaster 'ud
fall down in the lower dormitory," said Beetle.

"Let's," whispered McTurk.

"An' be collared first thing? Not much. Why, I can shove my hand ever so
far up between these boards."

Stalky thrust an arm to the elbow between the joists.

"No good stayin' here. I vote we go back and talk it over. It's a crummy
place. 'Must say I'm grateful to King for his water-works."

They crawled out, brushed one another clean, slid the saloon-pistols
down a trouser-leg, and hurried forth to a deep and solitary Devonshire
lane in whose flanks a boy might sometimes slay a young rabbit. They
threw themselves down under the rank elder bushes, and began to think
aloud.

"You know," said Stalky at last, sighting at a distant sparrow, "we
could hide our sallies in there like anything."

"Huh!" Beetle snorted, choked, and gurgled. He had been silent since
they left the dormitory. "Did you ever read a book called 'The History
of a House' or something? I got it out of the library the other day. A
French woman wrote it--Violet somebody. But it's translated, you know;
and it's very interestin'. Tells you how a house is built."

"Well, if you're in a sweat to find out that, you can go down to the new
cottages they're building for the coastguard."

"My Hat! I will." He felt in his pockets. "Give me tuppence, some one."

"Rot! Stay here, and don't mess about in the sun.