you thinking of?" asked Duncan; "I don't care twopence about
the beer, and I hope you won't go."

"But I will, though," said Eric, a little nettled that Wildney, of all
people, should think him wanting in pluck.

"But how will you get out?"

"Oh, _I'll_ show you a dodge there," said Wildney. "Come along. Have
you a dark lantern?"

"No, but I'll get Llewellyn's."

"Come along, then."

So the little boy of twelve took the initiative, and, carrying the dark
lantern, initiated the two study-boys of sixteen into a secret which had
long been known to the lower part of the school.

"Ibant obscuri dubia sub luce." He led them quietly down stairs, stole
with them noiselessly past the library door, and took them to a window
in the passage, where a pane was broken.

"Could you get through that?" he whispered to Eric, "if we broke away
the rest of the glass?"

"I don't know. But then, there's the bar outside."

"Oh, I'll manage that. But will you go and peep through the key-hole of
the library, and see who's there, Duncan?"

"No," said Duncan bluntly, "no key-holes for me."

"Hush! then _I_ will," and he glided away, while Eric, as quietly as he
could, broke away the glass until it was all removed.

"There's only old Stupid," whispered he, irreverently designating an
under-master named Harley, "and he's asleep before the fire. Now, then,
just lift me up, Eric, will you?"

Eric lifted him, and he removed the nails which fastened the end of the
bar. They looked secure enough, and were nails an inch long driven into
the mortar; but they had been successfully loosened, and only wanted a
little pull to bring them out. In one minute Wildney had unfastened and
pushed down one end of the bar. He then got through the broken pane and
dropped down outside. Eric followed with some little difficulty, for
the aperture would only just admit his passage; and Duncan, going back
to the study, anxiously awaited their return.

It was a bright moonlight night, and the autumn air was pleasant and
cool. But Eric's first thought, as he dropped on to the ground, was one
of shame that he should suffer his new friend, a mere child, so easily
to tempt him into disobedience and sin. He had hardly thought till then
of what their errand was to be, but now he couldn't help so strongly
disapproving of it, that he was half inclined to turn back. He did not,
however, dare to suggest this, lest Wildney should charge him with
cowardice,