Wyatt looked at him curiously, and moved to the window.
"I'm not going to let you do it, of course," he said, "because you'd go getting caught, and dropped on, which isn't good for one in one's first term; but just to amuse you"
He jerked at the middle bar, and the next moment he was standing with it in his hand, and the way to the garden was clear.
"By Jove!" said Mike.
"That's simply an object-lesson, you know," said Wyatt, replacing the bar, and pushing the screws back into their putty. "I get out at night myself because I think my health needs it. Besides, it's my last term, anyhow, so it doesn't matter what I do. But if I find you trying to cut out in the small hours, there'll be trouble. See?"
"All right," said Mike, reluctantly. "But I wish you'd let me."
"Not if I know it. Promise you won't try it on."
"All right. But, I say, what do you do out there?"
"I shoot at cats with an air-pistol, the beauty of which is that even if you hit them it doesn't hurt—simply keeps them bright and interested in life; and if you miss you've had all the fun anyhow. Have you ever shot at a rocketing cat? Finest mark you can have. Society's latest craze. Buy a pistol and see life."
"I wish you'd let me come."
"I daresay you do. Not much, however. Now, if you like, I'll take you over the rest of the school. You'll have to see it sooner or later, so you may as well get it over at once."
