“You are a nice lot, Master Johnny!”
The salutation was Tod’s. He and Bill Whitney were sitting over the fire in our room.
“I couldn’t help being late.”
“Of course not! As to late—it’s only midnight. Next time you’ll come in with the milk.”
“Don’t jest. I’ve been with that poor Charley, and I think he’s dying. The worst of it is, the proctor has just dropped upon me.”
“No!” It sobered them both, and they put aside their mockery. Bill, who had the tongs in his hand, let them go down with a crash.
“It’s a thousand pities, Johnny. Not one of us has been before the dean yet.”
“I can only tell the dean the truth.”
“As if he’d believe you! By Jupiter! Once get one of our names up, and those proctors will track every step of the ground we tread on. They watch a marked man as a starving cat watches a mouse.”