Once outside the door of the outer office, Myron broke into song. As a musical effort it was not remarkably successful, but as an expression of his feelings it met all requirements. Turning into the entrance corridor, he almost ran into Paul Eldredge. He and Paul had never spoken since the encounter on the walk that evening. Paul’s attitude toward him had been one of armed neutrality expressed in sullen silence and sarcastic glances. Now, acting on impulse, Myron stopped and spoke.
“Say, Eldredge,” he blurted, “let’s call it off! What do you say? I’m sorry for whatever it was that—that offended you.”
Eldredge, surprised, at a loss, stared at Myron’s smiling countenance for an instant, trying to think of something sarcastic. Failing, he grunted, and then, as Myron kept silence and waited, he said: “All right,” none too graciously; adding: “I’m satisfied if you are. You started it, anyway.”
Myron couldn’t remember whether he had or hadn’t just then, so he yielded the point. “Did I? I’m sorry then. Let’s forget it, eh?”
Eldredge nodded more amiably. “Sure! I’m willing.”
Then Myron nodded, laughed for no reason that the other could fathom, and hurried on. The laugh had nothing to do with Eldredge or with the making of peace, but was just an advertisement of the fact that life looked very good to him at the moment.
Mr. Addicks, a half-hour later, positively beamed on him, to the quiet amusement of those of the class who knew of Myron’s recent status, and Myron decided that the Latin instructor was “a corking old chap.” Reinstatement amongst the first team substitutes proved a most casual affair that afternoon. He reported to Farnsworth and the manager said, rather decently, “Glad you’re back, Foster. All right, get into it. That’s your squad down the field.”