“I’m afraid not,” replied Tom, as he invaded the lower regions of the man who attended to the fires, to borrow a long poker.  “We want this for some fun.  There’s a prof. who has a room just under ours, and he wears a wig.  It’s out on the window sill to air, and I think I can hook it.”

“Oh, young gentlemen, don’t, I beg of you!” expostulated the janitor.  But they paid no heed to him, and hurried off with the long poker, while the studious janitor, to drown his apprehension, took up a Latin book which he was struggling through, endeavoring to educate himself in the classics.

Tom was engaged in the exciting, if forbidden, sport of trying to lift the wig of the unfortunate professor from the ledge beneath his room window, when there came a knock on his door.

“Oh ho!” ejaculated Bruce Bennington, as he entered.  “Up to your old tricks, I see.  Well I can’t blame you.  I did the same thing once.  What are you after, a bottle of pop?”

“A wig,” explained Tom, briefly.  “Want a try for it?”

“Not me.  I’ve got to walk pretty straight you know.  I’m regarded as a sort of professor now, and I suppose, if I did my strict duty, I’d report you.  But I’m off duty to-night.  I say, Tom, are you ready now for that experiment I spoke of?”

“Sure I am.  But—­” and Tom looked suggestively at the poker and motioned downward to where the wig was still reposing.

“We’ll get it up while you’re gone,” said Jack.

“You will not!” cried Tom.  “Do you think I want to miss all the fun?  Wait until I get back.  Will your experiment take long, Bruce?”

“It may take most of the evening.  But the wig will keep, and you may think up a better plan in regard to it.  Why not substitute another for it while you’re at it?”

“By Jove!  The very thing!” cried Jack.

“You can get one while you’re in town if you like,” went on Bruce dryly, “for I’m going to drag you off to town, Tom.”

“Good!  I’m with you.  Mind now,” he cautioned his chums, “don’t touch that wig until I get back.”

They promised, and, though wondering what Bruce had in mind, they asked no questions.

“I guess it’s safe to run the guard to-night,” remarked Bruce, as he and Tom crossed the campus on their way to the trolley line running into Elmwood.

“Oh, sure,” assented our hero.  “But what’s in the wind?”

“I’m going to prove to you that it would be bad policy to make a class matter of sending Sam to Coventry, or of trying to run him out of the school.  And to do that I invite you to have a little lunch with me in town.”

“All right,” assented Tom, wondering what his friend had in store for him.

A little later they were seated in a private room in one of the Elmwood restaurants much patronized by the students.  Bruce ordered a tasty little lunch, and they were in the midst of eating it when there came the sound of several lads entering the next room.  There was talk and laughter, somewhat boisterous, and then a voice exclaimed: