“I am no authority on intoxicants,” went on the president grimly, “but I should say you were mistaken, Mr. Zane.”
“Will Mr. Henderson deny that I took a pint bottle of liquor from him not ten minutes ago?” asked Mr. Zane, as he produced the incriminating evidence.
Sid’s face turned red under its tan—it had been rather pale before—but he did not answer. Dr. Churchill looked grave.
“Is this true?” he asked.
“I did have the bottle in my pocket,” admitted Sid. “But it was not for myself. I took it——”
The president raised a restraining hand.
“Wait,” he said. “I will send for Dr. Marshall. This is serious.” He sighed as he looked at his book. To-night he felt, more than ever, what it meant, to be the head of an institution where several hundred young men—healthy, vitalized animals—were held in leash only by slender cords. Dr. Churchill summoned a messenger, and sent him for the college physician.
“Mr. Henderson is no more intoxicated than I am, and I never take a drop, nor give it,” declared the physician. “I guess you’re mistaken, Mr. Zane.”
“Is this liquor?” demanded the proctor, extending the bottle.