“When he got mad because I scowled at him. We tussled, and I fell through the door.”
“That was partly my fault. I’m sorry. You see, I’d been fixing the latch so I could open it from bed, and I hadn’t quite finished when you bumped against the door. What’s your name?”
“Kingsford.”
“Mine’s Langton; first name Robert; commonly called Rob; sometimes Lanky. Glad to meet you. Nice of you to drop in so casually.”
Evan laughed.
“That’s better. Wait a minute.” Rob got up and went to the wash-stand and dipped a towel in the pitcher. “Put that around your head,” he directed. “It’s good for aches. Too wet, is it? Let me have it.” He wrung some of the water out on the carpet and handed it back. “There you are. What room have they put you into?”
“Thirty-six.”
“No good,” said Rob, with a shake of his head. “You’ll freeze to death there. The Gobbler had it two years ago, and he did something to the steam-pipes so that the heat doesn’t get around any more. He vows he didn’t, but I know the Gobbler.”
“Can’t it be fixed?”
“It never has been. They’ve tried dozens of times. I have an idea what the trouble is, and I told Mac—he’s house faculty here—that I could fix it if he’d let me. But he never would.”