“I’m Wallops, the messenger. I have a note for Mr. Henderson.”
“For me?” and there was a startled query in Sid’s voice, as he went to the door.
Outside the portal stood a diminutive figure—Wallops—the college messenger, so christened in ages gone by—perhaps because of the chastisements inflicted on him. At any rate Wallops he was, and Wallops he remained.
“A message for me?” repeated Sid. “Where from?”
“Dunno. Feller brought it, and said it was for you,” and, handing the youth an envelope, the messenger departed.
Sid took out the note, and rapidly scanned it.
“See him blush!” exclaimed Phil. “Think of it, Tom, Sid Henderson, the old anchorite, the petrified misogynist, getting notes from a girl.”
“Yes,” added Tom. “Why don’t you sport her photograph, old man?” and he glanced at several pictures of pretty girls that adorned the sides of the room claimed by Phil and himself.
Sid did not answer. He read the note through again, and then began to tear it into bits. The pieces he thrust into his pocket, but one fluttered, unnoticed, to the floor.
“I’ve got to go out, fellows,” he announced in a curiously quiet voice.