"I look upon that term as somewhat objectionable, but I fawncy in the vernacular of college life it is one that is quite expressive."
"I'm not trying to boot-lick you or any other professor!" retorted Will, now feeling angry and insulted as well. "I didn't stay here to-day because I wanted to. You yourself asked me to do it. And I asked you a perfectly fair question. I knew I hadn't been doing very well, but after I saw you I've been trying, honestly trying, to do better. And all the encouragement you give me is to say that if I work harder I may almost come up to the passing mark."
"Pardon me, Mr. Phelps, but you are the one to change your record, not I. All I do is merely to jot down what you have been doing. I do not do the work—I merely record it."
For a moment Will Phelps was almost speechless with anger. He felt outraged and insulted in every fibre of his being. He hastily bade the professor good-morning, and, seizing his cap, rushed for his room, a great fear being upon him that unless he instantly departed he would say or do something for which he would have a lifelong regret.
As he burst into his room he found Foster already there, and, flinging his books savagely across the room, Will seated himself in his easy-chair and glared at his room-mate.
"Why? What's wrong? What's happened, Will?" demanded Foster, in astonishment.
"Oh, I've just had another delightful interview with old Splinter. He's the worst I ever struck yet!"
"Did you strike him, Will?" inquired Foster, a smile of amusement appearing on his face.
"No, but I'd like to! His soul would get lost in the eye of a needle! He's the smallest specimen I have ever run up against. He may know Greek, but he doesn't know anything else. I never in all my life saw—"
"Tell me about it, Will," interrupted Foster.