Hugh walked quickly to the desk. "Why, old man, what's the matter? Anything wrong with your mother? You're not sick, are you?"
Carl laughed, briefly, bitterly. "Yes, I'm sick all right. I'm sick."
Hugh, worried, looked at him seriously. "Why, what's the matter? I didn't know that you weren't feeling well."
Carl looked at the rug and muttered, "You remember those rats we picked up in Hastings?"
"Yes?"
"Well, I know of seven fellows they've sent home."
"What!" Hugh cried, his eyes wide with horror. "You don't mean that you—that you—"
"I mean exactly that," Carl replied in a low, flat voice. He rose and moved to the other side of the room. "I mean exactly that; and Doc Conners agrees with me," he added sarcastically. Then more softly, "He's got to tell the dean. That's why I'm going home."
Hugh was swept simultaneously by revulsion and sympathy. "God, I'm sorry," he exclaimed. "Oh, Carl, I'm so damn sorry."
Carl was standing by Hugh's desk, his hands clenched, his lips compressed. "Keep my junk," he said unevenly, "and sell anything you want to if you live in the house next year."