“I reckon I haven’t. I laid for him, if you want to know; and I had the pleasure just now of kicking him out. If I catch him in here again, I’ll break every bone in his body. Since you are so deeply interested in his welfare, you’ll be doing him a kindness if you tell him that for me.”
Deering’s lips curled contemptuously. “I don’t know exactly what you are driving at, Wilson, and I don’t think I particularly care.”
Kit snorted, and went on with the task of setting his things to right. Tony majestically proceeded toward the shower. After he had stood for a quarter of an hour under cold water he felt considerably cooler, and when he had dressed, he stopped at Finch’s room on his way to the Rectory for tea. Finch at first refused to respond to his knock.
“Come, come, open up, old man. I want to see you particularly.”
It was a bedraggled depressed-looking Finch that finally opened his door. Deering pushed it back and entered. “Now, what’s the trouble?” he asked. “I know something’s up, because Wilson just now said he had—had put you out of his room. What were you there for?”
“He did put me out,” gasped Finch. He hesitated, then lied desperately. “I wanted to borrow some paper. I thought of asking you, but Wilson had the kind I wanted. He wasn’t in, or at least I thought he wasn’t in, so I went to his desk, and began to pull some sheets off his pad, and he jumped on me from behind a curtain or out of his bedroom, from somewhere, I dunno where.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much. He called me a sneak, and kicked me out.”
“How did the ink get spilled?”