All was dark around them, but further on they could see that weird shaft of light moving this, way and that, indicating the spot where the unknown intruder just then happened to be located.
"He's making for the locker room, don't you see, Hugh ?" Thad ventured, with a perceptible quiver to his low voice.
"Sure thing, and he knows where he's going, in the bargain," the other went on.
"Of course, it's no hobo, then," continued Thad.

"That scamp knows every foot of ground under this roof.

You can see it by the way he keeps straight on.

Hugh, do you think it might be Nick ?" After all, it was only natural for Thad to jump to this conclusion, because of the evil reputation enjoyed by the boy he mentioned.
Nick Lang had been the bully and the terror of Scranton for years.
There was seldom a prank played (from stealing fruit from neighboring farmers, to painting old Dobbin, a stray nag accustomed to feeding on the open lots, so that the ordinarily white horse resembled the National flag, and created no end of astonishment as he stalked around, prancing at a lively rate when the hot sun began to start the turpentine to burning), but that everybody at once suspected Nick of being the conspirator.
Possibly he may not have always been the chief offender; but give Dog Tray a bad name and he gets the blame of everything that happens calculated to outrage the respectability of the law-abiding community.
"I thought of him at first," replied Hugh, "but it strikes me that chap isn't of Nick's build.

You see his light leaves his figure pretty much in the dark; for he's using it principally to show him the way, so he won't stumble over any chair, and make no end of a row." The two had been stealthily creeping forward all this while, and were, therefore, gradually diminishing the distance separating them from the bearer of the electric hand-torch.