By the way, Sarah's not heard the latest--we're going to blow him up as well as hang him." And they proceeded to explain that the guy was to be filled chock-full of fireworks and gunpowder, and his tongue to be made of touch-paper.
Altogether, he was to be a most dangerous and explosive effigy; and I, as president of the Philosophical Conversation Club, was naturally selected to take charge of him.
I pleaded hard for a sub-committee to assist me, but they would not hear of it.
"It'll only be a day or two," said they, "to the Fifth of November.
We'll have his stuffing all in to-morrow--there's almost enough fireworks left over from the picnic to load him.

Then you can stow him away quiet somewhere till the day.

Couldn't you stick him under your bed ?" "Oh no, he might go off, you know," said I; "or some one might see him.
Besides, he'll be too stout to go under." "Bother!--where can he go, then ?" "I vote we stick him in the lumber room under the gymnasium.

Nobody ever goes there, and you can get into it any time by the area outside," said Coxhead.
This was voted an excellent idea.

At any rate, if he was discovered or did go off there, the gymnasium was far enough away from Sharpe's.
So, with much rejoicing, the guy was duly loaded with his explosive internals, and clad in an old derelict overcoat of some late senior.