“I was! Say, drop the ‘Kemble,’ will you? I’m generally called Tom.”
“I like Tom better. My name’s Clif, short for Clifton.”
“I know. I heard your father call you that. That’s a real classy name.”
Clif reflected that he hadn’t thought of his father for a long while, and felt sort of guilty.
“Not much style to Thomas,” the other was continuing. “My middle name’s Ackerman. That was my mother’s before she married. When I was a kid I used to write my name T. Ackerman Kemble, but the fellows got on to it and called me Tackerman, and then Tak. Mother used to call me Tommy, but I had to lick a chap in school for doing it. It was all right from her, but I couldn’t stand for it generally.”
“Is your mother—I mean—”
“Yes, she died about six years ago. A man named Winslow is my guardian. Mother didn’t have any near relatives and this guy was her lawyer and so she stung me with him. He’s sort of a pill. I say, pipe the faculty chap on the steps!”
Against the light of West Hall entrance a tall figure was darkly silhouetted as they came up the drive.
“Faculty chaps are bad luck for me,” confided Tom; “like black cats!” Clif laughed uneasily. Then they were at the steps and he said “Good evening, sir,” as pleasantly as he knew how.