Greaser Tunxton,
a solitary youngster who ranked high among the polers and high markers
with a curious penchant for chemistry, began to be seen in their
company, the Tennessee Shad's vigilance became acute.

One night, when after hours he was returning from a midnight spread in
King Lentz's room, his ear detected unmistakable signs of activity
behind Skippy's door across the hall. A quarter of an hour later two
stocking-clad forms stole past his open door and slowly down the
treacherous stairs. The Tennessee Shad followed.

* * * * *

Below, the door of Greaser Tunxton opened cautiously and as cautiously
closed again. A moment later the Shad, now at the keyhole, heard the
window open and the sounds of a foray into the night. He calculated
nicely, passed into the room and out the window and took up the trail of
the three shadows moving in the general direction of Memorial Hall.

Ten minutes later the Tennessee Shad, having stalked his prey in classic
Deerslayer manner, reached the farther stretches of the pond and, flat
on his stomach among the high grasses, heard the following mysterious
dialogue:

"How's this, Skippy?"

"Fine! Must be millions of them."

"Do you suppose they sleep?"

"We'll wake 'em up."

"Shucks! It's only bullfrogs," thought the Tennessee Shad; but at this
moment perceiving the three in clear silhouette against the faint
moonlight, he instantly discarded that explanation. The three wanderers
into the night were clothed in helmets, from which voluminous folds of
cheesecloth descended to the waists, while each had his trousers rolled
up well above the knees. The conversation continued, to his growing
mystification.

"They're awake, all right. I can hear them coming!"

"You're the boss, Skippy. What's the order?"

"Twenty paces apart. Greaser, you shake the bell, slowly. Snorky, you
stand here, and, mind you, no slapping or moving. Everything
scientific."

"All right, but get a move on. Ouch, I've got two already."

"Red leg or blue leg?"

"Blue, darn it!"

"Fine! I'll count a hundred slowly. Start up, Greaser."

The low, harsh, grating sounds of a rusty bell slowly agitated began to
be heard, punctuating the droning count: "Five, six, seven!"

"For the love of Willie Keeler, what is it!" said the Shad, more and
more bewildered, as he rubbed one leg against the other and shook his
head to protect himself from the many insects. "It must be a secret