“Why?” he asked.
“Because he’ll get kicked out,” said Haydock.
“Fire Billy?” John looked terrified.
“That’s what they’ll do. And why not?” the senior went on heartlessly. “From what you say, he doesn’t seem to be quite ready for the place, as yet; so put him out.”
“But he isn’t bad, really bad.”
“No, certainly not; merely a damn fool; when he gets over being one, let him come back. The college understands that sort of thing much better than you or I do. It’s not only highly intelligent, but extremely benevolent. I’m sorry about Billy.”
“Won’t you talk to him—warn him in some way; he’ll listen to you,” said John, earnestly.
“I should be charmed,” answered the other, although he appreciated the delicacy of the situation, and felt that his words would fall on deaf ears.
It was later than John’s accustomed hour for going to bed, when he left Haydock’s room that night. This was his only reason for hurrying over to Matthews, as he did, when he finally said good-night to the senior. At the end of the little corridor near John’s door a man who looked like a messenger of some kind stood peering out of the window at the lights in the Square. He must have been standing there a long time,—long enough to become convinced that the continual sound of footsteps in the entry did not necessarily announce the person for whom he was waiting,—for he turned to John only when he heard the jingle of his keys.
“Rice?” he drawled, “J. D. Rice?” He gave John a note, and sauntered back to the window. The communication was from Billy. John read it there in the corridor under the gas jet:—