He climbed the steep stairs and found the little man busily packing. The floor was covered with packing cases, books lay about in piles, and the air was full of dust.
“Hullo!” said Traill, coughing in the doorway, “what's all this?”
“Hullo!” said Birkland, looking up. “I'm glad you 've come. I was coming round to see you, if you hadn't. I'm off for good.”
“Off for good!” Traill stared in astonishment.
“Well, for good or bad. The things that have happened this term have finally screwed me up to a last attempt. One more struggle before I die—nothing can be worse than this—I gave notice last week.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Traill.
“I don't know—it's mad enough, I expect. But I've saved a tiny hit of money that will keep me for a time. I shall have a shot at anything. Nothing can he as bad as this—nothing!”
He stood up, looking grim and scant enough in his shirt-sleeves with dust on his cheeks and his hair on end.
“Well, I'm damned!” said Traill. “Well, after all, I'm on the same game. I don't know what I'm going to do either. We 're both in the same box.”
“Oh!” said Birkland, “you've got youth and a beautiful lady to help you. I'm alone, and most of the spirit's knocked out of me after twenty years of this; but I'm going to have a shot—so wish me luck!”