“Excuse?” The secretary had drawn a slip of paper to him and recovered his pen.
“I—I forgot, sir,” answered Toby, lamely.
The secretary’s eye-brows arched. “That’s a novel excuse, Tucker,” he said dryly. He pulled out a drawer at his right, ran his fingers over the card index there and finally paused. “Tobias Tucker?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You hold a Ripley Scholarship, I believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
The secretary’s pen moved leisurely across the slip of paper.
“That’s the best excuse you can offer, is it?” he asked, without looking up.
“I was—was upset by something,” answered Toby, struggling to make a good case for himself of very poor material. “I didn’t know it was so late, sir. When I found out what time it was it was eight minutes to nine. I’m sorry.”
“Hm, being sorry is of so very little use, Tucker. Ever think of that? After this, I’d advise you to do your being sorry beforehand. It saves a lot of trouble sometimes. That’s all. You’ll hear from the Office in due time.”