"Well, I didn't have any luck," announced Kemble.
"How do you mean? Aren't you going to stay?" Clif took pains to keep all trace of interest from his voice.
"That's it," replied Kemble. "I am. Wyatt said he ought to turn me down, but that that would be too easy on me. Said he was going to pass me and devote the next three years to letting light in on the dark places. Or something insulting like that. Anyway, I've got to stay."
"But don't you want to?" asked Clif, surprised.
Kemble shook his head gravely. "I don't know. Of course I did want to when I came, but Wyatt got me scared so I was dead sure I couldn't, and so I had it all planned to go back home. And now he's gone and double-crossed me and I've got to—to readjust myself, so to say. Isn't that the dickens?"
Clif eyed the other suspiciously. "I guess you'll live through it," he said coldly. "What class are you?"
"Third. You, too, I suppose."
Clif nodded. "Funny you being shy on English. The course doesn't look hard in the catalogue."
"Oh, I don't suppose it's hard. I just never got up much interest in those guys that wrote literature. I'm pretty fair on math and Latin and history and the rest of the junk, though. Well, I'll just have to make the best of it, I suppose. Got your schedule fixed up yet?"
"No, I'm to see Mr. McKnight at half-past seven."
"We'll probably get the same hours, mostly," mused Kemble. "Fellow sufferers, we twain!"
