“What’s the good of studying?” he demanded pertly. “Arthur always help me out.”
“Well, he’s going to stop it right now!” declared Arthur. “And, what’s more, I’m going to pitch that stamp book out of the window if you don’t forget it for a while. See you later, Gerald. Don’t you worry about that; it’ll be all right. Everyone knows Jake Hiltz.”
Arthur ran up the steps and disappeared into Whitson Hall and Gerald went on to the next dormitory, Clarke, and climbed two well-worn flights of stairs. The last door in the corridor bore the number 28 and two visiting cards tacked beneath it. On one was “Daniel Morse Vinton,” and on the other “Gerald Pennimore,” but it was much too dark to read them. Gerald opened the door and passed through. At the end of the room, on the window seat, Dan and Alf were lolling.
“Hello,” said Alf. “Behold the fleet-footed Mercury!”
“Fleet-footed perhaps,” said Dan, “but not glad-visaged. What’s the matter, Gerald? Anyone dead?”
“Matter enough,” answered Gerald, as he tossed his cap onto the table and threw himself into the Morris chair. “Jake Hiltz has told everyone that I cut the course this morning. He’s told Ryan and wants him to disqualify me.”
“Phew!” whistled Dan.
“Oh, Hiltz!” said Alf contemptuously. “Don’t let that worry you, kid. Hiltz couldn’t tell the truth if he was paid double.”