“Well, it is odd,” said Gus, for the nth time sniffing the “tainted breeze.”  Curiosity piqued the fisher to trace the mystery.  He reconnoitred carefully, and presently fancied he could hear the faint murmur of voices.  This proceeded from the boat-house, wherein Hill moored the moat punt.  “I’ll just make a reconnaissance in force,” said Gus, putting down his rod.  Arrived at the punt-house, Gus peeped in through the slightly open door, and discovered no less important personages than Runjit Mehtah and “Burnt Lamb.”  The two dervishes were lolling luxuriantly on the punt cushions, each smoking a fine fat cigar, and the combined efforts of the two gave quite an Oriental air of magnificence to the ramshackle boat-house.

“Hallo!” said Gus.  “What the deuce are you doing?”

The cigars nearly fell from the mouth of each of the smokers as Gus appeared on the scene, but when the smokers made out Todd’s face through the haze, Mehtah said, with much relief—­

“Oh, talking.”

“That isn’t quite a true bill,” said Gus.  “Your Flora Fina de Cabbagios keep the fish from biting.”

“Have one,” said Burnt Lamb, hospitably offering Todd a cigar.

“No thanks.  Is this punt-house your usual lounge?”

“Sometimes,” said Mehtah.  “We can’t do without our smoke, and we can’t do it, you know, at the school.”

“No, that you jolly well can’t, my dusky Othello.  But aren’t you two booked for the Houser’s this afternoon?  I thought you were the backbone of Biffen’s.”

“The match is not for an hour yet,” said Lamb.

“Oh yes,” said Mehtah, “we’re going to sit on your house this afternoon, Todd.”

At this most interesting point of the conversation the door of the punt-house was violently slammed to, and Gus was propelled forward clean into the punt and received hurriedly into the unexpectant arms of Burnt Lamb.  Before any of the three could understand what had happened there was a hurried fumbling with the staple and pin of the punt-house door from the outside, and then an equally hurried retreat of footsteps.

“Well, I’m hanged!” said Gus, after he had picked himself up and tried the door.  “We’re locked in.”

Young Rogers and Wilson, who had done this fell deed, hoped there was no doubt about the locking.  This couple of ornaments had immediately after dinner snatched their caps and ran on past the Lodestone Farm for a particular purpose.  They had found a yellowhammer’s nest a day or so before, containing one solitary egg, and their hurried run was for the purpose of seeing if there was any increase, and if so—­well, the usual result.  They were anxious to get back to the cricket-field in time to shout and generally give their house a leg-up when the Houser with Taylor’s commenced, and their friend Grim had strict orders to bag them each seats, front row, in the pavilion.  They had been busy blowing eggs for pretty well twenty minutes, and, as they were lazily returning schoolwards, they caught sight of Gus watching his float.