“Bob,” answered Martin and Willard almost in unison.
Bob shrugged. “I don’t mind. Anyway, there isn’t anything to say. All we can do is ask to be allowed to attend the game. I don’t know of any—any effective argument that we can put up, do you?”
It seemed that no one did, and presently they started forth for Doctor McPherson’s residence, the Doctor seldom going across to Academy Hall before nine o’clock. They gave their names to the maid and stood in a cluster outside the library door while she disappeared in the direction of the dining-room. “Guess he hasn’t finished breakfast,” whispered Martin. “Maybe we oughtn’t to have come so early.”
“He ought to be through it if he isn’t,” muttered Bob sternly. “Anyhow, we can wait.”
Then the maid appeared again. “The Doctor says he will see you at the office at half-past ten,” she reported. The four exchanged glances and filed out. Outside, Bob gave a sigh of relief.
“I guess he’d have turned us down, anyway,” he said.
“You don’t know,” replied Willard. “Aren’t you going to try again?”
“I don’t believe,” said Bob. “What’s the use?”
“Lots of use,” declared Martin stoutly. “Let’s see it through now we’ve started. Come on up to our room and wait. It’s nearly two hours.”