“Why, he’s got one of those little handy electric torches, you see, and is using it so as to get his bearings inside the building.”

“Guess you’re right, Hugh,” admitted the other; “and there, he’s crawling over the sill now, as sure as anything.  Oh! the skunk, what can he be up to?”

“We’ll try and find out,” said Hugh, with his usual promptness.  “Now he’s gone further from the window let’s be moving along.  That plank ought to make it easy sledding for fellows like us.”

Indeed, it would be hard to find a couple of more athletic boys than Hugh and his chum.  Their intense love for every type of outdoor sport had kept them in splendid physical condition, so that their muscles were as firm as those of an athlete in training.  To make their way up that sloping board and reaching the open window was likely to prove a mere bit of child’s play with such fellows.

Hugh was the first to ascend.  When he had raised himself so that he could peep over the window ledge and see within the building he apparently found the coast clear; for Thad, coming along just behind, received a gentle prod with a toe, twice repeated, which he knew to be a signal that all was well.

By the time Thad arrived the other was already well within the room, having slipped across the window-sill without making the slightest sound.  All was dark around them, but further on they could see that weird shaft of light moving this, way and that, indicating the spot where the unknown intruder just then happened to be located.

“He’s making for the locker room, don’t you see, Hugh?” Thad ventured, with a perceptible quiver to his low voice.

“Sure thing, and he knows where he’s going, in the bargain,” the other went on.

“Of course, it’s no hobo, then,” continued Thad.  “That scamp knows every foot of ground under this roof.  You can see it by the way he keeps straight on.  Hugh, do you think it might be Nick?”

After all, it was only natural for Thad to jump to this conclusion, because of the evil reputation enjoyed by the boy he mentioned.  Nick Lang had been the bully and the terror of Scranton for years.  There was seldom a prank played (from stealing fruit from neighboring farmers, to painting old Dobbin, a stray nag accustomed to feeding on the open lots, so that the ordinarily white horse resembled the National flag, and created no end of astonishment as he stalked around, prancing at a lively rate when the hot sun began to start the turpentine to burning), but that everybody at once suspected Nick of being the conspirator.

Possibly he may not have always been the chief offender; but give Dog Tray a bad name and he gets the blame of everything that happens calculated to outrage the respectability of the law-abiding community.

“I thought of him at first,” replied Hugh, “but it strikes me that chap isn’t of Nick’s build.  You see his light leaves his figure pretty much in the dark; for he’s using it principally to show him the way, so he won’t stumble over any chair, and make no end of a row.”