“Well, I suppose I’ll have to live there just the same,” said Evan, with a smile.
“Oh, I don’t know. Where do you come from, Kingsford?”
“Elmira, New York.”
“Really? My home’s in Albany. We’re natives of the same old State, aren’t we? I guess we’ll get on all right. What class are you in?”
“Junior.”
“So am I. That’s another bond of sympathy. I call this great luck! I hate to live alone. Sandy Whipple was with me last year, but he had typhoid in the summer and isn’t coming back for a while. And now you happen in. Well, make yourself at home, Kingsford. It isn’t a bad room, you see. That’s your side over there.”
“But—this isn’t 36, is it?” asked Evan.
“Not a bit of it. This is 32. I told you, didn’t I, that 36 was no good?”
“But they’ve put me there! Won’t I have to go?”
“Of course not. I’ll settle it with the Doctor. You’re inclined to colds, you know, and 36 wouldn’t do for a minute. You leave it all to me. Any consumption in your family?”