"Why, your study-mate, comrade. Come, come, where are your tongues? What, no congratulations? Aren't you overjoyed to have me? Think how well we are sure to get on together—think of the evenings of happy and profitable study, self-help, also co-operation, everything pleasant—No, I implore you, no more cushions."
"Well, cut out the oratory," warned Jack, lowering the missile. "Do you think we are a bally political meeting? Aren't you Patch, though—weren't you in Cooper's House last term?"
"That is my poor name." The newcomer executed a profound bow. "Septimus Patch, socialist, inventor, friend of the downtrodden and oppressed—"
"Cheese it," said Billy. "Why on earth did they move you to this house?"
"Ah, why?" said Patch blandly, gazing at the ceiling.
"And why, on top of that, did they pick upon this study?"
"Who knows?" The inventor gazed dreamily out of the window. "Fate, perhaps."
"And, anyway," Symonds took up the tale, "what have you got in all these traps?"
"My chemicals—my models of invention—my books—my goods generally," said Septimus Patch gloomily.
Horror deepened upon the faces of the two chums.