“You—you’re fooling, aren’t you, sir?” asked Toby.
“Fooling? Nary a fool, Tucker. Red hair is the hall mark of getthereness, Tucker. It means pep and fight and determination, red hair does. Sometimes it means temper, too, but temper is all right if you learn to control it. And sometimes—” he paused a moment—“sometimes it means stubbornness. But stubbornness is all right, too, if exercised in a good cause. Of course, when a fellow says that black is white, when he knows it isn’t, and sticks to it, or insists that red is—ah—brown—”
Toby burst out laughing and Mr. Loring turned and regarded him smilingly, his thoughtful solemnity gone.
“It—it’s a little red, sir,” gasped Toby.
“I thought it couldn’t be all due to the sunset,” responded the coach with a chuckle. “Well, here we are.” They stopped at the gymnasium steps. “Where do you room, Tucker?”
“In Whitson, sir. Number 22.”
“That’s on the third floor, isn’t it? Mind if I look in on you some time? I haven’t really finished my little lecture on red hair.”
“No, sir, only—”
“Only what? You mean you’re busy and have no time for callers?”
“No, sir,” floundered Toby. “I mean—I was afraid—you see, my room isn’t very—very comfortable—”