"Well," he growled, "so you've done it again!"
For a moment the lad stood in shamefaced alarm, shaking from head to foot.
"Are you much hurt, Dad?" he stammered.
"Only a scratch," returned Whittington, senior. "But it's no thanks to you that I wasn't killed."
He turned to Sanders, who was still chafing his ankle.
"Anything broken?"
"No, sir; only a sprain."
"I'm glad it's no worse. Have this mess cleared away and I'll fix up with you later at the hotel; and get my suit-case over to my room, will you?"
To his son he said:
"We'll go to your dormitory."