The village of Ogleport was satisfactorily quiet, and as dark as the occasion called for, when Bar Vernon and Val Manning, with their shoes fastened to their waistbands, crept noiselessly out on the back roof.

There was not the least difficulty in getting into the branches of the maple, or from them to the ground below.

Then the shoes were hurriedly put on, and the two boys were off through the garden, down to the river bank, and from thence it was easy enough to gain one of the lower crossroads without being seen.

Half a mile of brisk walking in the direction of the lake brought them to the clump of bushes where they had hidden the joint product of their own skill and that of Puff Evans.

A curious thing it was.

A sort of “van” or wing about three feet square, made of a wooden frame with cotton cloth stretched across it, and one side of the frame swung easily in a pair of “journal holes” bored in another and stronger frame.

Below the wing, at right angles to the outside frame, a sort of arm reached down about two inches.

“I don’t see how you’ll make it work,” said Val, “but I suppose you do.”

“Show you when we get there,” said Bar. “Now we must make for the sheds.”

By the time the two boys reached the rear of the Academy there was not a soul stirring in all Ogleport.

Even Dr. Dryer felt safe about the bell, now that the rope had been removed, and he had looked to the doors and windows for himself, that afternoon.

“Are you a good climber, Val?” asked Bar.

“Not very.”

“Then I’ll let you in through that side-door in the basement,” said Bar. “You keep the machine.”

“But how’ll you get in?”

“Lightning-rod,” replied Bar. “It goes up close by one of the second story windows, and that has no fastening.”

“Is it strong enough?”

“Plenty. That’s the way the village boys got in. One of ’em left the mark of his heel deep in the grass at the bottom. Must have slipped and come down hard.”

“You’re a detective!” said Val.

It would have done the heart of Zeb Fuller good, if it had not revolutionized his views concerning “those two boarders,” if he had seen the practiced skill and agility with which Bar Vernon went up that lightning-rod.

“It’s equal to his billiards,” thought Val.

Yes, and it had been learned very much in the same way, during some of the queer episodes of his “old time.”

The window was opened and Bar disappeared, shutting it carefully and silently behind him, while Val hurried around to the basement door.

That, too, was speedily unbarred, and Val and his machine admitted.

“What are you barring it behind us for?” asked Val.

“Don’t want any accidents,” Bar began, and then he added, “Hush, we’re not inside here a minute too soon.”

Indeed they were not, for one of the Academy trustees, unable to be easy in his mind over the events of the previous night, had come out for a scouting expedition of his own.

Slowly, with heavy and circumspect tread, the good citizen was making his rounds of the old edifice, and now he carefully tried the fastenings of that lower door and peered anxiously in through the curtainless windows.

Very still kept the two adventurers, and both felt an unusually active pumping at their hearts, until they were sure that every door and window within his reach had been examined by the careful trustee, and that he had taken his satisfied departure.

“Now, Val,” said Bar, “we’re safe enough. Come on.”

Up they went, first into the main hall, then into the second story, then up the creaking and short-turning flight of steps which led to the lower deck of the steeple bell-tower.

“This west window,” said Bar, “towards the roof, is just the thing for our windmill. The wind has a clean sweep across the deck, for there isn’t a bit of sash all around.”

“There used to be, in winter,” said Val, “but I s’pose they think this deck is roof enough.”

“So it is,” said Bar, as he worked steadily and rapidly away, “but nobody can see this west window from the ground, unless they get over into the graveyard back of the sheds.”

“I don’t understand it quite yet,” said Val. “Even if the wind works it, how’ll it ring the bell?”

“Why,” replied Bar, “up there, on one side of the bell, is an old pulley-wheel. I’ll have to oil it before it will run well. Now, I’ll hitch the end of this rope to the bell-hammer, and pass it over that wheel. It’ll come down at the east side, close to the timbers, where nobody can see it with a telescope. Then I’ll pass it under this wheel here and hitch it to the lower arm of our van. Then, if there comes a good wind, that bell’s bound to toll every time the van is blown in.”

“It would take a west wind for it,” said Val.

“Perhaps, to work it regularly,” replied Bar, “but ’most any wind may do some good. Now, I’ve a pokerish job before me.”

It looked like it, indeed!

Val Manning was brave enough, but he would hardly have liked to undertake that climb in the dark. Not every boy would have cared for it in broad daylight.

Up went Bar, however, as surely and as rapidly as if he had served an apprenticeship at sea, and Val waited for him in almost breathless expectation till he saw him once more emerge into the moonlight, which was now beginning to stream through the bell-tower.

“It’ll work,” said Bar, “but I came pretty near losing my hold once. That would have been a bad piece of business.”

“Killed you!” exclaimed Val.

“Maybe not,” said Bar. “I fell as far as that once, but I came down on my feet. Made me lame for a month.”

Val made up his mind that he would know more about his chum’s adventures some day, but just now there was too much work on hand for any further talking.

Bar’s mechanical genius had not been altogether neglected, although he did not know anything of “book” mathematics, and in half an hour more he was able to show Val how that van would be sure to make a good pull on the rope if the wind would only do its share of the work.

“Glad there’s none blowing now,” said Val.

“There will be, before long,” said Bar; “there was a halo round the moon last night. Now we must manage to get back to bed again without being seen. Nobody’ll suspect new boys like us, anyhow.”

“But won’t they be after poor Zeb Fuller!” exclaimed Val.

“I must get acquainted with that fellow,” replied Bar.

“He’ll take care of that,” said Val. “They’re going to play ball on the green to-morrow, and we can take a look at him then. Only we’re sure to get into some kind of a muss.”

“The sooner the better, then,” said Bar. “We can’t settle matters with a crowd like his a day too soon.”

“We’d better go home around by the river, anyhow,” said Val.The process of getting out of the building was a good deal like that of getting in, for Bar would not listen to Val’s proposition to slide down the lightning-rod.

“Not,” he said, “till you’ve had some sort of practice first. It isn’t so safe and easy as it looks, and you mustn’t run any unnecessary risk.”

“But you do,” said Val.

“No, it isn’t any kind of risk for me,” replied Bar, “so long as the rod’s strong enough to hold me.”

Once more on solid ground, outside the building, Bar insisted on the greatest watchfulness and caution in working their way around and back to the bank of the little river. There, at least, they fancied themselves safe, and were pushing along from one lot to another, for the fences were no sort of obstacle, although they were built close down to the water.

As they sprang over into one inclosure, however, they were greeted by a hoarse, deep, threatening growl, which brought them to an immediate stand, and there before them, in the moonlight, they discerned the forms of a well-grown boy and a dog who was only too “well-grown.”“It’s Zeb Fuller and his Bob,” exclaimed Val. “We’re in his father’s lot. Zebedee,” he added, “what are you doing out here at this time of night?”

“Set some night-lines for eels,” said Zebedee, “and my mind was troubled about them. But what are you out for? Don’t you see what an awful example you’re setting Bob and me?”

“We?” said Val. “Oh, we are taking a look at the village.”

“Yes,” said Zeb. “I must go and talk with Solomon about it to-morrow. Have you tried your new boat yet, Mr. Cash?”

“Vernon,” said Val. “Bar Vernon. He’s to be my chum this winter.”

“Had a good time in her to-day,” said Bar. “Good boat.”

“Yes,” replied Zebedee, “and it was Puff Evans’s bad luck that the cow tolled the bell for last night.”

“Oh,” said Bar, “don’t you and the cow worry about Puff Evans. He’s satisfied. If you don’t believe it you can ask him.”

“I’ll ask him,” said Zeb, with more surliness than usually belonged to his nature, but he did not like the looks of things at all. Just then, however, the line he was pulling in gave unmistakable tokens of having something on it, and the next moment he had not only one eel, but two of them, and large ones, wriggling on the bank.

“That makes six for to-night,” he remarked, as Bob furtively tried one of the slimy prizes with his paw. “Fond of eels, Cash?”

“Very,” said Bar; “I owned an eel-mill once. Show you how to make one, sometime. Come on, Val. That’s a very dissipated-looking dog.”

While they were talking, Bar and Val had quietly walked along till they were halfway across the lot, and Bob had apparently recognized them as “boys,” for whom, as such, all fences and the like were constitutionally free, for he had not repeated his note of warning.

Even Zeb Fuller was for once a little taken aback.

He had his own reasons for not wishing to make a disturbance at that place and time, but he gazed half-angrily after the two friends as they vaulted over into the next inclosure.

“Dissipated? Bob, was there ever impudence like that? These fellows’ll get more instructions than old Sol can give them before they’re many days older. Robert, my boy, did you hear what they said about you?”

Bob was pawing the eels with a very discontented sort of whine, and did not take up the insult with any spirit.

“They said you had a dissipated look, Robert. Well, so you have, and I mustn’t keep you out so late o’ nights any more. But won’t I get even with that pair before I’m done with ’em!”

Zeb Fuller had very plainly had his own way too much in Ogleport, and his rustic narrowness had got him into a very bad state of mind. In fact, he and his friends had too much accustomed themselves, in a thoroughly Saxonish way, to regard the entire race of Academy “boarders” as a very undesirable lot of “foreigners,” if not, also, as a kind of “invaders,” to whom small mercy belonged on the part of himself and the other “natives.”