“Take the cup down to the rink and hand it over to French or Alf and tell them I found it in this room.”
“Oh,” said Hiltz, his gaze returning to his shoes. “And not say anything about me?”
“Not a word. Do you think anyone saw you come up the hill?”
“I don’t believe so. I left the rink just before the first half was over and everyone was looking at the players.”
“Then if I were you I’d go to my room and stay there until the fellows get back. No one will know then that you didn’t stay through the game. Now I’d better take this down or the game will be over.”
Gerald got up and put the cup under his arm. Hiltz arose, too, and stood hesitating doubtfully by his chair. At last:
“Well, I guess that’s the best thing to do,” he said. “And—oh, I guess you know how I feel about it, Pennimore. It’s decent of you, I’ll say that, and I—I appreciate it. My folks would feel like the dickens if Collins expelled me.” He walked to the door, opened it and faced Gerald again. “I guess you and I won’t—” he hesitated, hunting his words—“won’t have any more trouble, Pennimore.”
Then he disappeared and Gerald heard his footfalls dying away in the corridor. For a minute Gerald stood there frowning intently at the closed door. Then he smiled slightly, glanced again at his watch and left the building to hurry across the Yard and down the hill with the Pennimore cup hugged tightly under his arm.