“Almost time for supper. What shall I bring you? Do you care for milk-toast?”
“I do not! And I’ll look after my own supper. I guess maybe some food will do me good. If it turned out to be influenza I’d be all the better for having lots of strength. It’s weakened constitutions that cause so many fatalities. A fellow wants power of resistance, I guess.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but a clean handkerchief wouldn’t hurt!”
Monday introduced real November weather. The sky was overcast when Willard piled out of bed in the morning, and a cold breeze was blowing from the east. Radiators were sizzling and the bath-robed, gossiping groups were noticeably absent from the corridor when he set forth for the lavatory. Winter was in the air, and the coffee at breakfast never tasted so good.
It was just before ten that Willard received the disturbing message from the school office. Mr. Wharton, the secretary, desired to see him immediately after twelve. Oddly, perhaps, Willard failed to connect the summons with the Hillsport episode for some time. All during his ten o’clock recitation he subconsciously tried to think of some neglected study or duty that would account for the secretary’s desire for his company, and it wasn’t until he had disposed of that explanation by the slow process of elimination that Saturday night’s affair obtruded itself.
He didn’t allow that to alarm him, though. After all, a mere prank of that sort, common wherever there were boys’ schools, couldn’t be taken very seriously. In any case, he would get off with a reprimand. What bothered him more was the question of how Mr. Wharton had managed to associate him with the affair, and he wondered whether Martin and the others were wanted at the office also. He hoped to run across one or the other of them and compare notes, but luck was against him, and as soon as he was released from classroom at twelve he set forth a trifle uneasily down the corridor to the office.
He had to wait several minutes while the secretary heard and denied a freckle-faced freshman’s request for leave of absence over the next Sunday and then he made his identity known and received a distinct shock when Mr. Wharton jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said: “Doctor McPherson.”
The thumb indicated a closed door across the width of the outer office. Although Willard had never passed through that portal, he knew that it admitted to the Principal’s sanctum. His confidence waned as he opened the gate in the railing, heard it click behind him and hesitated before the blank portal.
“You needn’t knock,” said the secretary, over his shoulder. “The Doctor expects you.”