“I’m taking four extras this year,” he explained, “and it keeps a fellow rather busy.” He looked across at Monty through his big spectacles with a tolerant, even kindly expression, and gave the latter the idea that he was speaking in words of one syllable for his guest’s better comprehension. Monty, for once in his life thoroughly awed, responded somewhat indistinctly that it was quite all right, and that he supposed it must, and please not mind him at all. And, Granger smiling benignantly—he had two perfectly developed chins, which made his smiles much more effective—composed his large, round face again, and became immersed. From time to time Monty dared a glance, but only a brief one. A fellow who would willingly remain indoors on such a September afternoon, and dig political history was far too noble and great to be made the subject of mere vulgar curiosity.
Number 32 was a very ordinary room, one of at least sixteen more just like it in Trow Hall. It combined the duties of bedroom and study—there were a few suites of two and three rooms in Trow, but only a few—and wasn’t very successful at it. Two windows looked across the back campus to Crumbie Street, and the slope of Mount Grafton beyond. The only thing of interest in view, aside from the fields and woods, was the little red brick, slate-roofed building that held the heating plant. As far as view was concerned, Monty much preferred his own room, but he wondered if it wouldn’t be more fun living in one of the big dormitories like Trow than in Morris House. There was a window-seat under the casements, covered with a rather hard looking cushion and holding many pillows. Otherwise the furnishings were much the same as those in Number F, Morris, although not nearly so new. In fact, about every article of furniture there appeared to have a long and honorable history behind it, especially the study table, which, covered in green felt, had accumulated so many ink spots, and so many names and initials and strange hieroglyphics that nowadays one had to take the original color for granted. Several pictures and unframed posters hung on the walls, and there was the usual Grafton banner, in this case much larger and dingier than usual. It wasn’t difficult to determine which chiffonier of the two was Leon Desmarais’s, for one held only a pair of battered military brushes, a broken-toothed comb, a button-hook and a row of unframed photographs, and the other boasted a traveling case laid open to expose its silver and ebony articles, three silver-framed photographs of rather foreign-looking persons, and a leather belt with a buckle that looked astonishingly like gold, and was engraved with a monogram. And, in case there might still exist the chance of mistake, from the upper drawer escaped the end of a wonderful four-in-hand tie with alternating bias stripes of dark blue and bronze. Monty was growing a bit restless when footsteps sounded outside the half-open door—there had been several false alarms previously—and Leon entered hurriedly and breathlessly.
“Hello, Crail,” he greeted. “I’ve been over to your house to find you. That roommate of yours said he didn’t know where you were, and, by George, it sounded very much as though he didn’t care! Look here, have you met Mr. Granger? Granger, this is Mr. Crail, the chap I told you about. Let me see how you look, Crail. Shucks, that eye isn’t so bad, is it?”
“My ear’s the worst,” answered Monty, investigating it with a careful finger. “How’s your bump?”
“Oh, I’d forgotten about it. It doesn’t bother any. I told Granger about our little set-to, so you needn’t talk in parables. Granger seemed to think it was unfortunate we didn’t both drown!”
“Silly kids,” murmured the stout one benignly, keeping his place in Johnston’s classic with one pudgy finger. “Ridiculous!”
Leon laughed gayly. “Everything’s ridiculous to him, Crail, except the accumulation of worthless knowledge. Let’s leave him to it, and get outdoors. You haven’t anything this hour, have you?”
Monty said good-by to Granger, and followed Leon out and down the stairs. On the front steps Leon hooked an arm through Monty’s, and led him along the brick walk toward the principal’s residence and the tree-shaded road beyond. “Do you know, Crail,” he said, “I believe I’m going to like this place after all? I didn’t think so yesterday or the day before, but it looks quite jolly now. I dare say I’ll freeze to death when the cold weather comes, but until then—” He broke off to search a pocket of a gray tweed Norfolk, and produce the half of a cake of sweet chocolate. “Have some?” he asked, stripping the tinfoil off, and dividing the treasure. “Look here,” he continued, when they had sampled the chocolate, “I’m going to call you Monty. Maybe Monte Cristo. Ever read it? Great, isn’t it? Let’s climb that rock up there, shall we? What’s the thing on top of it, do you suppose?”
“Just a tower. Observatory, they call it. I guess you get some view from there. Funny, though, to call that little old hump a mountain. Out at Windlass City it wouldn’t be more than an ant hill.”