There was no answer, but as he closed the door behind him there came the crash of an overturned chair. He paused, smiling, a little way down the corridor and waited. From beyond the closed portal of Number 7 came sounds resembling those of a small riot. Presently Dan walked heavily back and rapped sharply on the door. Instantly the commotion ceased.
“Come in,” said a polite voice.
Dan opened the door. Alf, breathing heavily, was reading on the window-seat and Tom was seated in a corner nonchalantly nursing one knee.
“What’s all this noise I hear?” asked Dan, trying to imitate the gruff tones of Mr. Austin, one of the instructors who roomed in the building. There was a howl of rage from the occupants of the room and Dan turned and fled. The joke kept him chuckling all the way around to Oxford, where he posted Tom’s letter. Then he climbed the stairs to his room in Clarke, threw open the door and paused on the threshold in consternation.
In front of the washstand stood Gerald sopping his face with a blood-stained towel. His nose was swollen and bleeding, his knuckles were skinned and he was crying.
“Why, Gerald! What’s the matter?” cried Dan.
“N-nothing,” muttered Gerald, turning away.
“Nothing! Nothing be blowed! You’re a sight!” He drew the towel away from the boy’s face. “Why, you’ve been fighting! Who hit you and how did it happen? Here, let me take the towel. You sit down there and I’ll fix you up. Who did it?”