A council was immediately held in Fred Hart’s room, and Fred unanimously chosen chief.

“If they’re determined on a pillow-fight they shall have it,” resolutely remarked that warrior.

The Diggers proposed using their own pillows as reserve arms only, and the next day any number of this tribe might have been seen scouring the village on mysterious errands, which the housewives would have explained as an effort to buy up old pillows.

“All’s fair on the defensive,” said Chief Fred, and each Digger ripped open one end of his pillow, poured in a little mucilage, and then basted it up, in accordance with the liberal views boys always entertain concerning “basting.”

At a little after nine o’clock, when the lights had been extinguished, and a teacher made the nightly rounds, a Camanche scout quietly closed and bolted the iron doors and relighted the hall lamps.  Then, with hair-starting war-whoops, the savages began dropping down through the trap-door, which opened from one hall to another in the capacity of fire-escapes.

The Diggers, peacefully studying in their rooms, were summarily ordered into the hall to battle.  Every man protested, but the Camanches refused to parley.  Then, seizing their weapons, the assailed marched forth to the field of carnage.

Thwack! went the blows of the Camanches.

Thwack! the Diggers.

Thwack! the Camanches.

Thwack! the Diggers.

A stir among the Camanches and then a wild affray.

Crack! crack! go the Diggers’ bastings.  Crack! feathers fly over the heads and into the eyes of the Camanches, and there many of them stick.  The Camanches realize the disadvantages of unprovoked assault with no rules of warfare agreed upon beforehand.

Here and there a Camanche drops his arms and flies to the farther end of the hall, only to fumble unavailingly at the fastenings of the iron door, while a victorious Digger belabors him with the weapon he has just cast aside.

All at once there is descried in the dim light of the hall the boots and never-to-be-mistaken striped pantaloons of Captain Hale swinging through the trap-door!

Captain Hale is drill-sergeant and professor of gymnastics.  He has seen years of army service, and is thoroughly imbued with the military spirit.  The boys are more afraid of him than of the president and entire board of trustees,—­as afraid as they would be of old Nick, himself, in boots and striped pantaloons.

In a flash every Digger had disappeared into his own room and locked the door after him, and the Camanches are left alone, gasping among their feathers, the captain in their midst.

There is a moment of bewilderment followed by a wild stampede toward the iron door, but the Captain has cut off the retreat.

“Young gentlemen, you will remain and clear up the hall.  Williams, go to the coal-cellar and bring up the two-bushel basket.”