It was almost half-past nine when they got back to the room. An hour in the society of Roy and Harry had done wonders for Steve's spirits, and on the way upstairs he cheerfully announced that he intended to tackle that geometry before he went to bed. As Tom switched the light on, Steve's glance encountered a piece of paper on the floor. It had evidently been slipped in under the door.
"Who's this from?" he muttered as he bore it to the table. "Someone was too lazy to open the door and come in."
"What is it?" asked Tom, bending over Steve's shoulder.
"It's from that idiot Durkin," chuckled the latter. "'Got just what you fellows need. Shoe-blacking stand, two brushes, all complete. Cheap. Come and see it. P. Durkin.'"
"A shoe-blacking stand!" laughed Tom. "Say, he must have seen your shoes, Steve."
"Must have seen yours, you mean!" Steve crumpled the note up and dropped it in the basket under the table. "I guess we don't want any more of Mr. Durkin's bargains."
"Still, this 'Morris' chair turned out pretty well," said Tom, settling himself in it with a book. "And perhaps if we had that thing you'd keep your shoes looking better."
"Well, there's one thing about my shoes," returned Steve good-naturedly, "and that is the heels are blacked. Which is more than you can say of yours, my smart young friend."
Tom was about to deny the imputation when footsteps sounded in the corridor and there came a knock on the door.
"Come in," said Tom very politely. That step could only be Mr. Daley's, he thought. And when the door opened he found his surmise correct. Mr. Daley looked more nervous and embarrassed than usual as he entered.