"You're quite mad."
They looked at each other.
"The harmless kind, though," said George confidently, well aware that Mr. Enwright doted upon him.
In another minute the principal had gone to bed, without having uttered one word as to his health. George had announced that he should tidy the sacred desk before departing. When he had done that he wrote a letter, in pencil. "It's the least I can do," he said to himself seriously. He began:
"DEAR MISS INGRAM."—"Dash it!—She calls me 'George,'" he thought, and tore up the sheet.—"DEAR LOIS,—I think after what you said it's only due to you to tell you that I've decided to go in for that competition on my own. Thanks for the tip.—Yours, GEORGE CANNON"
He surveyed the message.
"That's about right," he murmured.
Then he looked at his watch. It showed 3.15, but it had ceased to beat. He added at the foot of the letter: "Monday, 3.30 a.m." He stole one of John Orgreave's ready-stamped envelopes.
In quitting the house he inadvertently banged the heavy front door.
"Do 'em good!" he said, thinking of awakened sleepers.