He received the housemaster frostily, but thawed
as the latter related the events which had led up to the ringing of
the bell.
"Dear me!" he said, deeply interested. "One of the boys at the school,
you think?"
"I am certain of it," said Mr. Downing.
"Was he wearing a school cap?"
"He was bareheaded. A boy who breaks out of his house at night would
hardly run the risk of wearing a distinguishing cap."
"No, no, I suppose not. A big boy, you say?"
"Very big."
"You did not see his face?"
"It was dark and he never looked back--he was in front of me all the
time."
"Dear me!"
"There is another matter ..."
"Yes?"
"This boy, whoever he was, had done something before he rang the
bell--he had painted my dog Sampson red."
The headmaster's eyes protruded from their sockets. "He--he--_what_, Mr.
Downing?"
"He painted my dog red--bright red." Mr. Downing was too angry to see
anything humorous in the incident. Since the previous night he had been
wounded in his tenderest feelings, his Fire Brigade system had been most
shamefully abused by being turned into a mere instrument in the hands of
a malefactor for escaping justice, and his dog had been held up to
ridicule to all the world.
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