“Let him knock,” said Toby to himself stubbornly. But he didn’t really mean it. If Arnold called, he decided, he would let him in. He waited tensely. There was a moment’s silence outside. Arnold must know that he was in, Toby assured himself, for he could see the light through the transom and if he really cared about seeing him he would try again. If he didn’t—
“Tucker!” called a voice from beyond the locked door. “Tucker, are you in there?”
Toby’s heart sank. It wasn’t Arnold after all! Outside the door stood a small and apologetic preparatory class youth with a suit draped across one arm. “S-sorry to disturb you, Tucker,” he stammered, “but I wanted to know if you thought you c-could do anything with these. Th-they’re in an awful mess. I b-brushed up against some paint in the village to-day.”
“I’ll fix them,” answered Toby listlessly. “What’s the name? Lingard? All right. I’ll have them for you to-morrow evening.”
“Thanks,” exclaimed the youngster gratefully. “I—I hope you won’t find them too—too m-messy.”
“I guess not. Good-night.”
Toby closed the door again, tossed the clothes over the back of the dilapidated arm-chair and returned gloomily to his lessons. He was a fool, he muttered, to think Arn cared enough to seek him out. Not that it mattered, however. Not a bit! Arn could plaguey well suit himself. He didn’t care!