“What difference does it make to me?” he asked himself. “Let him go his own way, and I’ll go mine.”
He crossed to the book rack on the window sill, intending to do some studying. On the broad stone ledge outside the casement he kept his bottle of spring water. It was a cooler place than the room. Andy poured himself out a drink, and as he sipped it he said again:
“Why should I care what he does?”
Then, from off in the distance he heard the chimes of a church, playing “Adestes Fideles.”
He stood listening—entranced as the tones came to him, softened by the night air.
And there seemed to whisper to him a still, small voice that asked:
Andy shut the window softly, and, going back to his chair sat staring into the fire. It was dying down, the embers settling into the dead ashes. It was very still and quiet in the little room. All Wright Hall was very still and quiet now.
“I—I guess I’ll have to care—after all,” whispered Andy.
Footsteps were heard coming along the corridor, and, for a moment Andy had a wild hope that it might be Dunk returning. But as he listened he knew it was not his chum.