He came over at once. Grumbling and muttering something under his breath, he stumped into my room, and when he saw I was not sick in bed, as report had made me, he seemed to become angry rather than pleased. He cleared his throat, ran his hand through his hair till it stood up straight on his head, and glared at me savagely.
"What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Why did you not report at the office last evening? Are you sick or is this some prank? What's this I've been hearing about you and that young cub of The Call?"
"I don't know what you've been hearing," I said, "but I want to tell you that I'm not going to stay here any longer. I'm going home."
"What do you mean by that?" he shouted at me.
"You asked me what happened to me?" I said excitedly. "I'll tell you."
And I did. When I was through, and sat sobbingly picking and twisting my handkerchief in my hands, he said explosively:
"Why in the name of common sense did you remain behind in that place?"
"I told you I wanted to go over my notes. I had not been able to report intelligently the proceedings, as I felt ill."
"Don't you know better than to stay alone in any building where there are likely to be black men?"
No, I did not know better than that.