Several of his colleagues openly congratulated the boy-faced genius who seemed to them to be the only man with a plan worthy of adoption.
Amid the general exchange of felicitations before which the genius blushed and stammered his confusion, assistant professor Lowe rose and caught the eye of the dean.
"Order—oh—ah—order, gentlemen!" the latter called. "Professor Lowe seems to have a word——"
"It's just a word," was the reply, "but, gentlemen, the plan suggested can be of no avail and for a very simple reason——" He looked down at the boy-faced junior professor in astronomy who had formulated the plan referred to and who looked up at him, weakly, sufferingly.
"And what is the reason?" inquired the dean severely, loth to have a theory declared impracticable which he had seemed to favor.
"It is that this note was written—ingeniously I am willing to admit—by a right handed person, who, to disguise his writing, wrote with his left hand in what we call the 'back-hand' style. All writings, under such circumstances, are alike. My authority, gentlemen, is Dumas; of whom some of you may have heard." And with this cuttingly sarcastic speech the assistant professor of history sat down.
There was an instant's silence, broken by the old gentleman at the back of the room who had fallen asleep some minutes before. Awakening, just as assistant professor Lowe delivered his retort, he had heard but a word, and that word was pleasant to his aged ear.
"What's that?" he called.
No one assumed the task of explaining to him and he dozed off again.