“It pains me deeply to learn of your discomfort,” replied the Assistant Principal dryly. “Perhaps if you had telephoned to Central at once you’d have been released sooner. May I ask who you are and how you happen to have been using the booth?”
Gibson, having now discovered that he was talking to neither a student nor the janitor, changed his tune. “My name is Gibson. I—I came to see the football game. A fellow sung out that I was wanted on the telephone and showed me up here. When I asked the operator she said no one had called me. Then I tried to get out and couldn’t.”
“Hm,” said Mr. Collins. “We have reported the matter to the company and they have agreed to send up and fix that latch. As a matter of fact, I presumed that they had done so. I am very sorry, Gibson. I don’t understand, however, why the messenger should have deceived you. Some mistake, doubtless.”
“He—he did it on purpose,” blurted Gibson, still too angry to be discreet. Mr. Collins looked surprised. They had reached the steps and now the Assistant Principal viewed the boy thoughtfully.
“Why?” he asked.
“I—I don’t know,” muttered Gibson. “It doesn’t matter, though. I—I’ll be going. Thank you, sir.”
“One moment, please. You live in Greenburg?”
Gibson hesitated. Then, “No, sir, I—I’m at Broadwood. I just came over to see the game.”
“Really?” Mr. Collins raised his brows. “Your Broadwood team doesn’t play to-day, then?”
“Yes, sir, they play Nordham.”