the stars were hidden by clouds.

They crept silently towards the guard-tent. A dim figure loomed out of
the blackness. They noted with satisfaction, as it approached, that it
was small. Sentries at the public-school camp vary in physique. They
felt that it was lucky that the task of sentry-go had not fallen that
night to some muscular forward from one of the school fifteens, or
worse still, to a boxing expert who had figured in the Aldershot
competition at Easter. The present sentry would be an easy victim.

They waited for him to arrive.

A moment later Private Jones, of St Asterisk's--for it was he--turning
to resume his beat, found himself tackled from behind. Two moments
later he was reclining in the ditch. He would have challenged his
adversary, but, unfortunately, that individual happened to be seated
on his face.

He struggled, but to no purpose.

He was still struggling when a muffled roar of indignation from the
direction of the guard-tent broke the stillness of the summer night.
The roar swelled into a crescendo. What seemed like echoes came from
other quarters out of the darkness. The camp was waking.

The noise from the guard-tent waxed louder.

The unknown marauder rose from his seat on Private Jones, and
vanished.