“None of your impertinence, Parsons!” exclaimed the proctor. “You are out after hours, and you will report to my office directly after chapel. This matter of students staying out must be broken up.”
“I agree with you,” went on Tom easily, “but I’m afraid I can’t report to you after chapel to-morrow, or, rather, to-day, Mr. Zane.”
“You can’t? What do you mean, Parsons?”
“Why, you see, I have to attend a lecture by Moses—I beg your pardon—Dr. Churchill—at that hour.”
The proctor, as Tom could see in the light of the hall lamp, as the rays streamed from the glass door of the dormitory, looked pained at the appellation of “Moses” to the venerable head of the college. The boys all called Dr. Churchill that among themselves, though they meant no disrespect. They had evolved the title from his name; from the fact that, as one of the first students put it, the original Moses went up on a hill to establish the first church—hence Church—Hill; and thus “Moses.”
“I am sure Dr. Churchill will excuse you when he knows the circumstances, Parsons,” went on the proctor with a malicious smile. “You will report to me for being out after hours without permission.”
“Oh, but I have permission,” spoke Tom, as he drew out a note which the president had given him. “I beg your pardon for not mentioning it before. Very stupid of me, I’m sure,” and this time it was Tom’s turn to grin.
The proctor looked at the permit, saw that it was in regular form, and knew that he was beaten. Without a word he turned and went back to his apartments, but the look he gave Tom augured no good to the talented pitcher. Tom went to his room, chuckling to himself.
“Well?” asked Phil, who was not asleep when Tom entered. “Did you see Ruth?”
“Yes, old chap. It’s all right,” and Tom told something of his visit—that is, as much as he thought Phil would care to know. “Your sister and Miss Tyler are both sorry you were laid up,” he went on.