His face grew very red—so red, that the freckles on it looked white and sickly by comparison.
He closed the door softly and tiptoed to the opposite side of the hall where he stood for a long time lost in profound thought. He might have stood there for an indefinite period had he not heard some one come up the steps and fumble around in the outer darkness for the bell.
It was Philip, and before he succeeded in finding what he was searching for, the door was opened by young Perkins who, seizing him by the neck, whispered hoarsely in his ear:
“Don't utter a sound! Don't!—or I shall strangle you on the spot.”
With no further explanation Philip was dragged back through the hall—Perkins executing a wild dance the while—and up to Perkins' apartments. Here he was relinquished from his friend's forceful grasp, becoming once more a free agent.
“What's got into you, Perkins?” he asked, adjusting his collar and cravat.
“It's settled!” Perkins said excitedly; “they have arranged it—and here I figured all along that I should have to do it for them, which just shows what a billy-goat I am. Aren't you glad, old fellow?”
“Look here, Perkins,” Philip remonstrated reproachfully, “why don't you tell me what you are talking about?”
“You fool! Haven't you got any sense?—Franz has gone and done it!”
Whereat, instead of being offended at such unusual language as applied to himself, Philip clutched Perkins much as Perkins had previously clutched him and they danced madly back and forth across the room.