Toby made his way downstairs and followed the walk to Oxford. At the end of the corridor the ground-glass panel marked “Office” still glowed with light, and when Toby pushed it open, Mr. Forisher, the secretary, was still at work beyond the railing. Toby made known his wants and the secretary silently pointed with his pen toward a list tacked to a board beside the door. The names of the students were there, arranged alphabetically, and Toby found the T’s and went down the list: Tolliver, Tooker, Traine, Tubb, Tucker——
“Whoa!” murmured Toby. “‘Tubb, G. W., Fremont, N. H., 4 C., W. 31.’ What do you know? Right over my head! That’s the room Felter and Dunphy had last year. He and I are side by side on the list. Hope that isn’t a what-you-call-it—omen!” He retraced his steps to Whitson and ascended two flights of worn stairs. The upper corridor awakened memories, some pleasant, some otherwise. As ever, it was but dimly lighted by a single gas-jet near the head of the stairs, and its farther ends were pockets of gloom. For some reason electricity as a lighting method had never penetrated to Whitson, although the other buildings had it. Toby glanced toward the door of his old room ere he turned his back to it and made his way along the rough boards of the hall. Number 31 was on the front of the building, about halfway between stair-well and corridor end. It was too dark to read the single card thumb-tacked to the portal and Toby knocked instead. There was a noticeable interim of silence before a voice that was strange to the caller called an ungracious “Come in!”
Toby accepted the invitation. The only light in the room came from the green-shaded droplight on the littered table directly before the door, and its radius was small, leaving most of the room in shadow. For a moment Toby thought he had imagined the voice and that the room was empty. Then, however, his eyes accustoming themselves to the gloom, he saw a blur of white and gray beyond the table that gradually evolved into the form of George Tubb. Tubb was minus coat and waistcoat, and one suspender had escaped from a shoulder.
“Hello,” said Toby uncertainly. There was something in the strained silence of the room that made him uncomfortable. “I got your note, Tubb,” he went on awkwardly, “and I meant to answer it——”
“That’s all right,” growled Tubb. “Forget it. I had a brain-storm.”
Toby had advanced to the side of the table, and now his host was plainly revealed. Tubb had a towel in one hand and with it, as he spoke, he dabbed at his face. Each time the towel came away there was a new stain on it.
“Hasn’t that cut healed yet?” asked Toby in surprise.
“Doesn’t look so, does it?” muttered Tubb. He pulled the dropped suspender over his shoulder and turned as though in search of his coat.
“But——” began Toby.