"Well, John, how do you like the school?"
Stover, more terrified by this mild beginning than if the Doctor had produced a bludgeon from behind his back, stammered out that he thought the buildings were handsome, very handsome.
"It's a pretty big place," said the Doctor, throwing his nervous little body back in an easy chair and studying the four-hundred-and-second problem of the year. "You'll find a good deal in it—a great many interests."
"He certainly has a wicked eye," thought Stover, watching with fascination the glance that confronted him like a brace of pistols suddenly extended from under shaggy bushes. "Now he's sizing me up—wonder if he knows all?"
"Well, John, what was the trouble?" said the Doctor from his easy, reclining position.
"The trouble, sir? Oh," said Stover, sitting bolt-upright with every sinew stiffened. "You mean why they fired—why they expelled me, sir?"
"Yes, why did they fire you?" said the Doctor, trying to descend.
"For getting caught, sir."
The Doctor gazed at him sharply, seeking to determine whether the answer was from impertinence or fright or a precocious judgment of the morals of the nation. Then he smiled and said:
"Well, what was it?"