“Then what’s he been doing all these years?” asked Jim.
“I think,” replied Jeffrey, “that he writes.”
“Writes? Writes what?” asked Poke.
“Books. The other day I passed his room when he happened to have left the door open—which doesn’t very often happen, as you know—and I saw a whole pile of paper on his desk and he was writing away like sixty with those tortoise-shell spectacles of his on.”
“Pshaw! Correcting papers, likely,” said Poke.
“They weren’t papers; they were sheets all written on just alike. I could see that easily.”
“Wonder what sort of books he writes,” murmured Jim.
“Oh, about Latin and history, probably,” said Poke. “Maybe they’re text-books. He doesn’t look quite such a criminal as that, either.”
“Well, whatever he writes,” remarked Gil, “it’s a safe bet he won’t be doing it here much longer.”
“Couldn’t we do something?” asked Jeffrey. “You see, after all, even if he is a member of the faculty, he—he’s one of us, you know, a Sunnywooder.”