"That's the ceiling below. Look out! If we smashed that the plaster
'ud fall down in the lower dormitory," said Beetle.

"Let's," whispered McTurk.

"An' be collared first thing? Not much. Why, I can shove my hand ever
so far up between these boards."

Stalky thrust an arm to the elbow between the joists.

"No good stayin' here. I vote we go back and talk it over. It's a
crummy place. 'Must say I'm grateful to King for his water-works."

They crawled out, brushed one another clean, slid the saloon-pistols
down a trouser-leg, and hurried forth to a deep and solitary
Devonshire lane in whose flanks a boy might sometimes slay a young
rabbit. They threw themselves down under the rank elder bushes, and
began to think aloud.

"You know," said Stalky at last, sighting at a distant sparrow, "we
could hide our sallies in there like anything."

"Huh!" Beetle snorted, choked, and gurgled. He had been silent since
they left the dormitory. "Did you ever read a book called 'The
History of a House' or something? I got it out of the library the
other day. A French woman wrote it--Violet somebody. But it's
translated, you know; and it's very interestin'. Tells you how a house
is built."