the corridor. The door of the adjoining room was hurriedly closed.
"Off with your clothes—hustle into bed," ordered some one in that apartment.
Shoes were kicked off, beds creaked, and then came odd cries.
"Wow!"
"Murder!"
Tap—tap—tap! came a knock at the door.
"What's going on here?" asked the sharp, stern voice of the dormitory watchman.
"Thunder!"
"Oh, my back!"
"I'm scratched to pieces!" So ran the cries, and half a dozen persons seemed to bound from beds to the floor.
Bob Upton was shaking with suppressed laughter, stuffing the end of the pillow into his mouth to keep from yelling outright.
"Bob," whispered Frank, "what have you been up to?"
"Drove a plug into their hose ten feet from the faucet, slit the rubber full of holes—and filled the beds with cockle burrs," replied Bob, and, quaking with inward mirth, he rolled out on the floor.
"Gentlemen of Dormitory 4, report at the office in the morning with an explanation," droned the severe tones of the monitor out in the corridor.
