"About twenty-eight, I believe. Haven't seen him yet?"
"No, I've got a date at seven-thirty to fix up my schedule. I'm glad he's youngish. And how about Wyatt?"
"You won't like him. 'Alick's' a tartar. But you won't have him more than four hours a week. He's English Lit."
"Do you have McKnight, too?"
"For adviser? No, 'Cheese' is my 'nurse.' He's French. You don't have him until next year."
"Is Cheese his real name, or—"
"Parks, Charles Parks. They call him 'Charlie' sometimes."
"Do they all have pet names?" asked Clif.
"Naturally. There's 'Old Brad' and 'Lovey' and 'Pink' and 'Cocky'—and 'Wim'—"
"Who's 'Cocky'?"
"Babcock, Physical Director and Hygiene. 'Wim's' Head of the Junior School. It's run separate, you know. Then there's 'The Turk' and—" But possibly Walter realized that he was offering unsolicited information, for he stopped short, selected a towel from a neat pile in a lower drawer and made for the lavatory. Clif hugged a knee and watched the shadows creep across the courtyard. Life didn't look promising to him just then. This fellow Treat—well, Clif didn't believe he was going to find him just what his name implied. Sort of a "frozen-face," he seemed. Maybe you were like that if you came from Boston. Still,
