“How will you do it?”

“By using something I got out of Rover’s dress-suit case.”

“Oh, I see!”

“Sharp will suspect Rover at once, because he and Rover had a few words yesterday.”

“Good!  I hope he catches it well—­Rover, I mean,” answered Dudd Flockley.

Saturday was more or less of a holiday at Brill, and the three Rover boys planned to go to town.  Incidentally, they wished to learn if Dora Stanhope and the Laning girls had as yet arrived at Hope Seminary.  They had received no letters from the girls since coming to Brill, and were growing anxious.

Tom was dressing to go to town when there came a knock on his door, and one of the proctors presented himself.

“Thomas Rover, you are wanted at the office immediately,” said the man.

“What for?” asked Tom.

“Don’t ask me, ask Professor Sharp,” answered the proctor, and looked at Tom keenly.

Wondering what could be the matter, Tom finished dressing, and in a few minutes presented himself at the office.  President Wallington and Professor Sharp were both waiting for him.

“So you’ve come at last, have you, you young rascal!” cried Abner Sharp angrily.  “How dare you do such an outrageous thing?”

“Gently, professor,” remonstrated the president of Brill.  “You are not yet certain—­”

“Oh, he did it, I am sure of it!” spluttered Professor Sharp.  “I declare I ought to have him locked up!”

“Did what?” demanded Tom, who was much mystified by what was going on.

“You know well enough, you young reprobate!” stormed the instructor.

“See here, Professor Sharp, I’m neither a rascal nor a reprobate, and I don’t want you to call me such!” cried Tom, growing angry himself.

“You are, and I will have you to understand—­”

“I am not, and if you call me bad names again I’ll—­I’ll—­knock you down!” And Tom doubled up his fists as he spoke.

“Rover, be quiet!” exclaimed Doctor Wallington, so sternly that both Tom and Professor Sharp subsided.  “I’ll have no scene in this office.  You must behave yourself like a gentleman while you are here.  Professor, you must not call a student hard names.”

“But this outrage, sir!” spluttered the instructor.

“We’ll soon know the truth of the matter.”

“I’d like to know what you are talking about,” said Tom.  “I haven’t committed any outrage, so far as I know.”

“Didn’t you do this?” cried Abner Sharp, and thrust under Tom’s nose a photograph of large size.  The picture had once represented a fairly good-looking female of perhaps thirty years of age, but now the hair was colored a fiery red, and the end of the nose was of the same hue while in one corner of the dainty mouth was represented a big cigar, with the smoke curling upward.  Under the photograph was scrawled in blue crayon, “Ain’t she my darling?’”

The representation struck Tom as so comical that he was compelled to laugh outright; he simply couldn’t help it.  It was just such a joke as he might have played years before, perhaps on old Josiah Crabtree, when at Putnam Hall.