The little fellow with the moustache whom the Goodhue crowd called Spike met him on the campus one day after practice.
"My name," he announced in a high-pitched, slurred voice, "is Wandel. You may not realize it, but you are a very great man, Morton."
George looked him over, astonished. He had difficulty not to mock the other's manner, nearly effeminate.
"Why am I great, Mr. Wandel?"
"Anybody," Wandel answered in his singing voice, "who does one thing better than others is inevitably great."
George smiled vindictively.
"I suppose I ought to return the compliment. What do you do?"
Wandel wasn't ruffled.
"Very many things. I brew good tea for one. What about a cup now? Come to my rooms. They're just here, in Blair tower."
George weighed the invitation. Wandel was beyond doubt of the fortunates, yet curiously apart from them. George's diplomacy required a forcing of the fortunates to seek him. Wandel, for that matter, had sought. Where George might have refused a first invitation from Goodhue he accepted Wandel's, because he was anxious to know the man's real purpose in asking him.