o prep, and the dormitories were
open for packing. Consequently it was not difficult for twelve members
of the lower dormy to creep out when Randall's had settled down to
their gorge and to range themselves along the gym roof. It was
beautifully dark and dry: fortune was helping the cause of Gideon and
the right. Neave and Cullen were to ascend the fire-escape and enter
Randall's two dormies, one taking each. They were to go through the
cubicles, removing the jugs, soaking the beds, and handing out the
empty pitchers to others who passed them quietly down a line of waiting
figures. This seemed the best, the quietest method of transport.
Ultimately all the jugs would be awaiting in Berney's lower dormy the
great moment of Toffee Randall's speech. Martin formed one of the
hidden line and shivered for half-an-hour on the roof of Randall's gym
while he passed jugs carefully along. Never in all his life had he
known a night like this. He was thrilled by the sense of comradeship
in danger and the knowledge that he was working in the company of great
ones, working for the pain and humiliation of Randall's. Never did he
forget the supreme exhilaration of that night attack: the climbing in
the dark, the whispers, the nervous strain, the dread of blundering and
betraying his party, the intolerable waiting. Each movement of the
trees in Randall's garden made him think that the conspirators had been
noticed and that someone was coming.

At length every bed had been duly drenched and forty pitchers had been
silently transferred to Berney's lower dormy. Each member of the
dormitory took two jugs, and four of them had three. Then they waited.
They could see down into the lighted windows of Randall's dining-hall
where the enemy feasted; but the supper was drawing to its end. By the
resounding chorus of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" they knew that
Toffee Randall was "up" for the last speech of the evening. When the
singing and cheering were over Randall began his oration. At the same
moment Neave gave the signal. Everyone in Berney's lower dormy cried
aloud, "For Gideon and the Lord," and, as they cried, forty pitchers
crashed on the zinc roof of Randall's gymnasium. No one, not even the
manipulators of three jugs, had failed or been late. There was but one
cry and one crash: and there on the zinc roof lay myriad morsels of
china, glittering in the half light thrown from the windows of either
house. The noise had bee