“No, I don’t.”
“Worse and more of it. I wish you joy of your job. But I’m off. There’s going to be some hazing, and I’m on the committee to provide some extra tortures for the freshies. So long. Miss Philock has her den in that red building on your left,” and, whistling a merry air, which was utterly out of keeping with Tom’s spirits, Frank Sullivan walked away.
“Well, here goes,” said Tom to himself, as he walked up to the residence of the preceptress and rang the bell.
An elderly servant answered his summons, and looked very much surprised at observing a good-looking youth standing on the steps. Tom asked to see Miss Philock, and the servant, after shutting the door, and audibly locking it, walked away.
“They must be terribly afraid of me,” thought Tom, but further musings were put to an end by the arrival of the preceptress herself.
“What do you want, young man?” she asked, and her voice sounded like some file rasping and scraping.
“I wish to deliver a message to Miss Ruth Clinton,” was Tom’s answer.
“Who are you?”
“I am Thomas Parsons, of Randall College.”
“Are you any relation to Miss Clinton?”