Westby had completed his geometrical figures and was now engaged in labeling them with letters. But instead of employing the usual geometrical symbols A, B, C, and so on, he was skipping about through the alphabet, and Irving immediately perceived that he was not choosing letters at random. Irving observed that the initials of his own name, I, C, U, formed, as it were, the corner-stone of the geometrical edifice.
At that moment Westby coughed—an unnatural cough. And instantly a miracle happened; every single wooden eraser—there were half a dozen of them—leaped from its place on the shelf beneath the blackboard and tumbled clattering down the steps to the floor. At the same instant Westby flung up both arms, tottered on the topmost step, and succeeded in regaining his poise with apparently great difficulty.
The class giggled.
“Mr. Upton, sir! Mr. Upton, sir!” cried Westby excitedly. “Did you feel the earthquake? It was very noticeable on this side of the room. Do you think it’s safe for us to stay indoors, sir? There may be another shock!”
“Westby,” Irving’s voice had a nervous thrill that for the moment quieted the laughter, “did you cause those erasers to be pulled down?”
“Did I cause them to be pulled down? I don’t understand, sir. How could I, sir? Six of them all at once!”
“Bring me one of those erasers, please.”
Westby stooped; there was a sound of snapping string. Then he came forward and presented the eraser.
“You tied string to all these erasers, did you?” Irving examined the fragment that still clung to the object. “And then arranged to have them pulled down?”
“You see how short that string is, sir; nobody could have reached it to pull it. Didn’t you feel the earthquake, sir? Didn’t you see how it almost threw me off my feet? Really, I don’t believe it’s quite safe to stay here—”