“Yes, sir! Oh, certainly, sir! Bear a hand, you men!” “Don’t barge, Bolsover! You’re always barging!” “Who’s barging?” “You jolly well are!” “Look here, you ass—” “Look here, you fathead—” Bolsover major shoved Skinner, schooner shoved Bolsover major. The black- board, half up, crashed down again. Mossoo almost danced with excitement and wrath. Along with the backward, three or four fellows sprawled on the floor, barged over by other fellows. It was quite a game. This, in the opinion of the juniors, was better than French! It was much more amusing than French. “Here, lets get that blackboard up!” shouted the Bounder. He could resist the temptation no longer. “Smeet! Zat you be quiet, Smeet, vill—” “I’m only helpin’, sir! You’re in the way, Skinner! Gerrout of the way, you tick! Gerrout!” Skinner, shoved by the Bounder, sprawled over Bolsover major. Vernon-Smith grasped the easel, and it to drop from the floor. Perhaps, by chance, it escaped from his hands, and crashed over on the desks. There was a yell from Billy Bunter, as the easel crashed on the back of his bullet head. “Yarooh! I say, you fellows—” “Smeet!” shrieked Monsieur Charpentier. “It’s all right, sir! Quite an accident, sir! Lend a hand, Cherry—don’t slack there! Lend a hand, Bull!” Half the class gathered round the easel, and dragged it off the desks. They swung it around, and Mossoo hopped like a kangaroo, just escaping having his legs swept from under him as it swept round. “Ha, ha, ha!” “Mes garcons! Bad Boys! Smeet! Sherry! Mon Dieu! Zat you touch it not no more!” “Ha, ha, ha!” The door of No. 10 class-room opened. “Cave!” yelled Hazeldene. He rushed back to his place. There was a general scamper. It was the rather tall figure of the new master of the Remove that stood in the doorway.
bolsters were crashing on him right and left. He rolled into the passage, spluttering and squirming and gurgling The terrific din rang through the House. Startled voices were heard calling from downstairs; doors opened; lights flashed on. The deep, fruity voice of Mr. Prout was heard; “what—what is that uproar? What?” “Burglars!” roared Bob Cherry. “Urrrgh! Groogh! Wurrgggh!” In the passage the sooty man scrambled frantically to his feet. Pillows and bolsters swiped at him, and he fairly turned and ran “After him!” roared Bob Cherry. “Burglars! After him!” “Stop him!” “Stop thief!” “Don’t let him get away!” “Great gad!” ejaculated Mr. Prout He reached the landing and switched on the light, just in time to see a blackened figure bolting out of the dormitory passage, with a mob of yelling juniors in pursuit. Who it was, what it was, Mr. Prout did not know; he stared at it petrified. “Stop him!” “Burglars!” The roar from the passage enlightened Mr. Prout! He leaped in the way of the running figure, and grasped at it manfully. Prout was a stout fellow—not only in circumference. He jumped at the blackened figure and grasped it, and they went over together on the landing. Clouds of soot scattered over Prout, and he gasped and spluttered. But he held on, like the stout fellow he was. “Surrender, you scroundrel!” gasped Prout. “I have you—rascal. I have you! Surrender!” “Oh crikey!” gasped Bob Cherry. “I have him!” gasped Prout. “Do not be alarmed, my boys, I have caught the scroundrel! I have him safe! A negro, I think—a ruffianly negro!” “Oh crumbs!” “Prout’s got him!” gasped Johnny Bull. “Prout’s got the burglar!” “Oh scissors!” The “burglar” was stirring frantically in Prout’s grasp. Probably he would soon have accounted for the stout Prout. But there was plenty of help at hand for Prout.