“The Peloponnesian War was 430, wasn’t it? Or was it 431?”
Ira, already startled by the sudden apparition, drew back in surprise. “I—What did you say?” he gasped.
“The Peloponnesian War,” repeated the stranger in the doorway impatiently. “What was the date?”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember,” replied Ira apologetically. “But it was somewhere around there.”
“Rather indefinite,” said the other drily. “Thought you might know. Much obliged.” He was gone and the door was closed before Ira could reply, leaving the dim impression of a thin, earnest face and a pair of big spectacles. Ira smiled as he climbed the next stairway. From the room across the corridor came the muffled strains of “Boola” punctuated by a sound that suggested the beating of a book with a ruler. Ira’s smile became a grin. Evidently “Maggy’s” was inhabited by some queer characters, he thought.
There was barely time for a letter before eight o’clock and he lighted the gas and set to work. But after writing “Dear Dad” at the top of the sheet he leaned back and began to think of that encounter with Goodloe in the morning. He found that he entertained a sentiment of cordiality toward Goodloe and the idea of standing up to him and trying to flatten his nose for him seemed somewhat ridiculous. “If only he hadn’t come around and called,” thought Ira. “He seemed such a decent chap, and apologised so nicely! Wonder why he wants to fight. I’m sure I don’t. Well, I suppose I’ll have to go through with it. I guess I can lick him, all right, but I haven’t got much enthusiasm for it. Still, if I don’t make a fight of it he will probably mess me up considerable. I guess he’s the sort that’ll bore in and take a lot of punishment, too. Bother him, I wish he was in Halifax!”
After that there was not time left for the home letter, and he spruced up a bit and trudged through School Street and then along Washington Avenue, in front of what was known as Faculty Row, and found the Principal’s residence, at the corner of the grounds, quite gay with lights within and coloured lanterns without. A thin stream of more or less embarrassed First Class fellows was ascending the steps and edging in to be greeted by Dr. and Mrs. Lane at the door of the big library. Ira liked Dr. Lane’s looks and his hearty handshake and his deep and pleasant voice. The Principal was a man still slightly under thirty, of medium height and build, clean-shaven, with rather more of the executive than the pedagog in his appearance. He held Ira in conversation a few moments and then passed him over to Mrs. Lane, a rotund, cheerful little woman who invited him to tea on Friday next at half-past four and asked him what church he attended. Ira was afterward in doubt whether he had accepted the invitation or not, but concluded that it didn’t matter. He met Professor Addicks a minute later and was flattered to discover that the professor remembered him. The professor, although Ira didn’t know it, always remembered everyone and everything. After that he met many other members of the faculty, many of whose names he promptly forgot, and talked, without being introduced, to a number of lonesome looking fellows whom he found standing around in corners or flattened against walls. Most of the guests were, of course, first year students, and Ira and some eight or nine others were the only older boys there. One small chap of fourteen whom Ira discovered in a niche between a door and a mantel in a back room mistook him for an instructor or something official, a misapprehension flattering but embarrassing. He caught sight of Nead once for a moment, but that youth was hobnobbing with a freshman in the hall and didn’t see him. Refreshments were served in the garden at nine, and after demolishing a helping of ice cream and a slice of cake Ira slipped quietly away. It wouldn’t do to stay up very late, since he had an important engagement at half-past six at the West Gate, and he had still to do some studying. What time Nead returned he didn’t know, for he was fast asleep at half-past ten.