His musing was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a figure coming quickly from the teachers’ residence, which was directly in front of the dormitory building. The figure exclaimed:
“Wait a minute, please.”
“Proctor Zane!” whispered Tom to himself. “He thinks he’s caught me. Probably he doesn’t know I’ve got a permit. I’ll have some fun with him.”
A moment later the proctor stood beside Tom.
“Are you aware of the hour?” asked Mr. Zane, in what he meant to be a sarcastic tone.
“I—I believe it’s nearly two o’clock,” replied Tom. “I will tell you exactly in a moment, as soon as I look at my watch,” and with a flourish he drew his timepiece from his pocket. “It lacks just eight minutes of two,” he added.
“I didn’t ask you the time!” exclaimed the proctor.
“I beg your pardon, sir; I thought you did,” spoke Tom.
“Aren’t you getting in rather late?” asked the official, as he drew out his book and prepared to enter Tom’s name.
“Well, it might be called late,” admitted Tom, as if there was some doubt about it. “That is, unless you choose to look at it from another standpoint, and call it early morning. On the whole, I think I prefer the latter method. It is more comforting, Mr. Zane.”