“The end of the year!” I cried, the predicament striking me for the first time in its fulness. “Say, you've got a crust!”
“You'll do it, if I have to hold a gun over you,” he announced grimly.
Mingled with my anxiety, which was real, was an exultation that would not down. Nevertheless, the idea of developing Tom into a Shakespeare,—Tom, who had not the slightest desire to be one I was appalling, besides having in it an element of useless self-sacrifice from which I recoiled. On the other hand, if Alonzo should discover that I had written his theme, there were penalties I did not care to dwell upon.... With such a cloud hanging over me I passed a restless night.
As luck would have it the very next evening in the level light under the elms of the Square I beheld sauntering towards me a dapper figure which I recognized as that of Mr. Cheyne himself. As I saluted him he gave me an amused and most disconcerting glance; and when I was congratulating myself that he had passed me he stopped.
“Fine weather for March, Paret,” he observed.
“Yes, sir,” I agreed in a strange voice.
“By the way,” he remarked, contemplating the bare branches above our heads, “that was an excellent theme your roommate handed in. I had no idea that he possessed such—such genius. Did you, by any chance, happen to read it?”
“Yes, sir,—I read it.”
“Weren't you surprised?” inquired Mr. Cheyne.
“Well, yes, sir—that is—I mean to say he talks just like that, sometimes—that is, when it's anything he cares about.”