“Dry up, Paul!” begged Rogers. “Tasser’s got his eye on you.”
“I won’t dry up,” retorted the insulted Eldredge. Nevertheless he dropped his voice beyond the hearing of the neighbouring instructor. “If that stuck-up mollycoddle thinks he can talk about kicking me and get away with it he’s all wrong, believe me!” The younger boys were listening in open delight and Tinkham was fairly squirming with excitement. “Get that, Foster?”
“I heard you,” replied Myron indifferently.
“You did, eh? Well, any time you feel like——”
“Rogers, what’s wrong at your table?” It was Mr. Tasser’s voice, and Eldredge stopped suddenly and gulped back the rest of his remark.
“I—I—that is, nothing, sir,” stammered the Head. Then, to Eldredge in an imploring whisper: “Shut up, will you?” he begged. “Want to get me in wrong?” Eldredge muttered and shot venomous looks at Myron while the youngsters sighed their disappointment. Myron folded his napkin and arose leisurely, aware of the unsympathetic regard of his companions, and walked out. In the corridor he waited for a minute or two. He had no desire to carry matters any further with Paul Eldredge, but he felt that if he hurried away that youth might misconstrue the action. However, Eldredge didn’t appear and so Myron went across to Sohmer, still sore and irritated, to find an empty study. Eldredge’s failure to follow Myron out of the dining hall had been due entirely to discretion. With Mr. Tasser’s penetrant and suspicious gaze on him, he decided that it would be wise to avoid all seeming interest in Myron.
Joe failed to return to the room, and after trying to do some studying and finding that he simply couldn’t keep his mind on his task, Myron pulled a cap on and sallied forth again. It was misting by then, and a chilling suggestion of autumn was in the air. When he had mooned along the country road that led toward Cumner for a mile or so without finding anything of interest he turned back toward the town. A hot chocolate in a corner drug store restored his spirits somewhat and, having no better place to go, he crossed the railroad and made his way through the dreary quarter that held the residence of Merriman. He didn’t suppose Merriman would be in, but it was something to do. Recalling former instructions, he didn’t bother to ring the bell this time, but opened the door and climbed the dark stairway to the second floor. That Merriman was in became known to him before he had groped his way to the room, for from beyond the closed portal came the sound of voices. For a moment Myron hesitated. He hadn’t bargained on finding visitors there. But the loneliness of Number 17 Sohmer on this Sunday afternoon decided him, and he knocked. Merriman’s voice bade him enter and he opened the door on a surprising scene.
On the decrepit window-seat reclined Joe Dobbins. Close by, in the room’s one armchair, with his feet on a second chair, was Merriman. Between the two was a corner of the deal table, dragged from its accustomed place, and on the table was the remains of a meal: some greasy plates, a coffee pot, cups, bits of bread, about a third of a pie, a half-eaten banana, a jar of milk. The room, in spite of a wide-open window, smelled of sausages. On Joe’s chest reposed Tess, the terrier, evidently too full of food and contentment to bark, and in Merriman’s lap was a squirming bunch of puppies.
“Come in, Foster,” called the host genially. “Pardon me if I don’t get up, but just now I am weighted with family cares. Find a chair and draw up to our cosy circle. Have you had food? There’s some pie left, and I can heat some coffee for you in a second.”
“I’ve had dinner, thanks, a good while ago.” He carefully lifted a dozen or so books from a chair and took it across to the window. He felt rather intrusive. And there was Joe grinning at him from the seat, and he was supposed to have a grouch against Joe.