"He's got our clock!" thought Tom. "Here is where I catch him red-handed, so to speak."
The figure glided from the door into the hallway, and Tom followed, pausing but a moment to make sure that his three chums were in their beds. From their opened doors the sounds of three different styles of breathing assured him of this. Then he glided on.
Once more he followed the white-robed figure until it ascended the stairs to the story above, but this time Tom was close behind when the door opened.
"Hold on there!" exclaimed Tom, as the portal was about to close, and reaching forward he laid his hand on the shoulder of a student. "I'll trouble you for our clock!" said Tom, sternly.
Then he got one of the surprises of his life. With a startled cry the lad he had grabbed turned about, and his widely opened eyes suddenly changed their expression—changed so queerly that Tom knew he had the solution of the mystery.
"A sleep-walker!" he gasped, as he recognized Harry Johnson, one of the Juniors who did not enter much into the sporting life of Randall. "He's been doing this in his sleep!"
"What—what is it—where—have I? Oh, I've been at it again!" gasped the lad as he was aroused. "I beg your pardon, Parsons. Hope I haven't done anything very bad this time."
