“Pah!” cried Wilson, “I can’t stand the touch of you. Get out of my sight.” He gave Finch a vicious kick that sent him reeling toward the door.
“If ever you come near my room again,” shouted Kit, “I’ll break every bone in your miserable body. You sneak! You cur! Get out!”
Poor Finch did not debate upon the manner of his going. With one movement, he had wrenched open the door and fled, not escaping, however, a parting shot from Wilson’s boot.
Kit turned wrathfully to survey his damaged desk and papers, and began to clear the litter up.
“The sneak!” he muttered. “And that’s the specimen that Tony Deering thought we ought to take into the Dealonian, that’s the dirty little cur for whom he’s thrown me over!”
Unfortunately, as Finch sped down the corridor for his own room, he ran squarely into Tony who was just coming out of Number Five study.
“Well, what the deuce is the matter with you?” exclaimed Deering, turning to look at the bewildered figure. But Finch did not reply. He dashed into his own room, and slammed and locked the door. Tony whistled softly, and went on. He was on his way to the shower, and had nothing on but his wrapper. His way led past Number Twelve study where Kit roomed, and at its door, as he turned a corner of the corridor, he saw Wilson thrusting armfuls of paper into the waste basket. Tony dropped his eyes and did not speak. Wilson looked up suddenly and recognized him, and impulsively exclaimed: “I say, Deering, just look here and see what a mess your particular pet has made for me.”
Tony stopped, surprised, and annoyed by Wilson’s angry tone. He glanced indifferently at the disordered room, the desk stained by the great blot of ink, the crumbled papers. “Well,” he remarked, “I don’t see how this concerns me or my friends.”
“You don’t, eh?” exclaimed Kit. “Well, I blamed well do. That’s the sort of thing I’ve had to put up with for the last three weeks. Your friend Finch has been in here, kindly putting my room on the bum.”
“Finch!” cried Tony. “I don’t be—I reckon you’ve made a mistake.”