The lights in the little homes were already out, for the people of Coventry Center were not believers in keeping untimely hours, and the twinkling lights of the little village for the most part disappeared before ten o’clock arrived.  It was about that hour when Will Phelps and Hawley stopped at the end of the one straggling street to try to discover if there were any signs of the presence of their enemies or classmates.

“Shall we wait or put straight for the minister’s house?” inquired Hawley.

“Go there,” replied Will.

“Look out!  Don’t let any one see you,” said Hawley in a low voice as they stealthily began to make their way up the street.  Occasionally they stopped to make sure that they were not being followed or to strive to discover if their own friends were near.  They had passed the little white wooden church building and were approaching the parsonage when both stopped abruptly.

“What’s that?” demanded Hawley in a whisper.

“You know as much about it as I do.  Come on and we’ll find out.”

The sound of voices could be heard from the rear of the house and from the tones it was evident that the speakers were somewhat excited.  Furthermore Will was positive that he recognized the voices of two and they were members of the sophomore class at Winthrop.

“How many are there?” whispered Hawley.

“Sounds as if there were six or eight.  Hark!  There’s the minister talking.”

“What’s he saying?”

“I can’t make out.  He’s excited over something, though.”

“Come on,” whispered Hawley, “let’s creep up around the corner of the barn.  We can see and hear too there, and if we’re careful they won’t suspect us.”

“It will be all day with us if they do,” whispered Will in response.

Slowly and cautiously the two freshmen crept along the side of the street and diagonally across the vacant field till they had gained the desired corner of the barn.  Then crouching low they peered forth at the sight which could be seen in the dim light.

On the highest step of the rear piazza of his house stood Mr. Whitaker, the minister of Coventry Center.  He was a man at least sixty-five years of age, genial and shrewd, the friend of every one in the region.  On the ground before him now five men could be seen and neither Will nor Hawley had any difficulty in recognizing all five as sophomores.  Will pinched Hawley’s arm in his excitement, but did not speak, though it almost seemed to him that the thumpings of his heart must betray his presence to the men who were before him.

Mr. Whitaker was speaking and instantly Will’s attention was centered upon what was being said.  “No, young gentlemen, I am not willing that you should enter my house.”

“But, Mr. Whitaker,” said one in reply whom Will took to be a sophomore who roomed near him in Perry Hall, “we don’t want to come into the house—­just into the woodshed, that’s all.”