The next day Peter returned. Morris’s study was filled with students. Morris was courteous to a fault, but Peter refused to be placated.
“Can you let me have that ninety dollars for the freshman crew to-day?” he asked. The crowd grinned. Morris shook his head and looked devastated with grief.
“I regret that I can not; not to-day. Perhaps next fall—or a year from yesterday, now——”
When the door was closed between him and the laughing enemy, Peter turned and shook a small, tightly clenched fist. “Wait!” he whispered, hoarsely.
That was on Friday.
Returning across the yard from chapel the next morning, Peter encountered Wyeth, Morris’s roommate. He carried a valise, and Peter knew that he was going home over Sunday.
“Beg pardon,” said Peter, “but can you tell me where I can find Morris?”
Wyeth hesitated. Then he laughed and played traitor. He jerked his head in the direction of Haworth, and scuttled for the car. Peter’s heart leaped as he hurried across the campus. When he reached the dormitory he crossed the courtyard and sprang up the stairs two at a time. The outer door was ajar. On the inner he knocked boldly. There was no response. He knocked again, then entered the study. The room was deserted. The sunlight shone in brightly through one window, where the curtain was drawn back. Peter investigated the bedroom to the left. It was empty. He crossed to the opposite door. Within lay Morris on a gorgeous brass bedstead, his big chest rising and falling in mighty respirations, his half-opened mouth emitting sounds resembling the subterranean roar of an idle geyser. One arm lay straight beside him; the other crossed his body, clutching the embroidered quilt.
The clock in the next room ticked on, slowly, monotonously, while Morris slept and Peter evolved an idea, an idea so grand, so desperate, that his flaming locks stirred uneasily upon his scalp and his breath came in gasps. Then he sighed as if from his very shoes. His mind was made up!