“Meaning you do, eh?” Joe laughed good-naturedly. “That it?”
“I’m not used to sharing my room with others,” answered Myron stiffly. “And I’m afraid you and I haven’t very much in common. So I guess we’ll get on better if—if we keep to ourselves.”
“All right, kiddo—I mean Foster. Anything for a quiet life! Suppose we draw a line down the middle of the room, eh? Got a piece of chalk or something?”
“I’ve taken the chiffonier nearest the window,” said Myron, disregarding the levity. “But I’ll have my things out in the morning, in case you prefer it to the other.”
“Chiff—Oh, you mean the skinny bureau? Doesn’t make any difference to me which I have, ki—Foster. Say, you don’t really mean that you’re going to leave Parkinson just because you can’t have a room to yourself, do you?”
“I do. I’m going out now to send a wire to my father.”
“Gee, I wouldn’t do that, honest! Why, say, maybe I can find a room somewhere else. I don’t mind. This place is too elegant for me, anyway. Better let me have a talk with that guy over there before you do anything rash, Foster. I’m sorry I upset your arrangements like this, but it isn’t really my fault; now is it?”
“I suppose not,” replied Myron grudgingly. “But I don’t believe you can do anything with him. Still, if you don’t mind trying, I’ll put off sending that telegram until you get back.”
“Atta boy! Where’s my coat? Just you sit tight till I tell that guy where he gets off. Be right back, kiddo!”
Joe Dobbins banged the door behind him and stamped away down the corridor. Pending his return, Myron found a piece of paper, drew his silver pencil from his pocket and frowningly set about the composition of that telegram. Possibly, he thought, it would be better to address it to his mother. Of the two, she was more likely to recognise the enormity of the offence committed by the school. Still, she would see it in any case if he addressed it to the house and not to the office. When it was done, after several erasures, it read: