“Well, but I’d rather you took it first,” Loring insisted. “You know—you know, Bingham, you saved my life, I guess.”
“Rot! You’d have made it all right even if I hadn’t butted in. Well—” and this was to switch the conversation from so embarrassing a subject—“I’ll take it first, if you’re sure you won’t mind. I’ll give it back to you this afternoon. You’re in that room of Mr. Clendenin’s, aren’t you, on the first corridor in East?”
“Yes, between his office and the game room. Doctor Wyndham let me have it because it’s rather hard to get up and down the stairs so often. By the way, Wattles, you’d better see about a new chair the first thing in the morning.”
Wattles, walking slightly in the rear, had, it appeared, already given thought to the subject. “I think, Mister Loring, we can rent a chair temporarily while this is being repaired. I understand there’s a very capable cabinet maker in the town, sir.”
“All right,” laughed Loring, “but seems to me what we need is a carriage maker, Wattles. Anyhow, you see what you can do. We may have to telegraph to New York, you know.”
Clif yielded the chair to Wattles at the West Hall entrance, and, much to his confusion, since a half-dozen fellows were looking on over the tops of their papers, Loring held his hand out. Clif took it, uncomfortably aware of the curious stares of the audience, and discovered that Loring Deane, whatever his physical disabilities might be, had plenty of strength in his fingers. Loring smiled, but rather gravely, and “Thanks, Bingham,” he said simply.
“Shucks, that’s all right,” said Clif hastily, and got his hand back feeling rather as if it had been just drawn from a vise. “I don’t believe I helped much. Well, see you later. I’ll bring this back by three, sure.”
“Keep it as long as you want,” answered Loring. “Don’t return it at all unless you want to, although I hope you will because I’d like to have a visit from you.”
“Why, I—sure, I’ll be around.”