man, what’s the matter? Anything wrong wi your mother? You ’re not sick, are you?”
Carl laughed, briefly, bitterly. “Yes, I’m si< all right. I’m sick.”
Hugh, worried, looked at him seriously. “Wh what’s the matter? I didn’t know that yc were n’t feeling well.”
Carl looked at the rug and muttered, “You r member those rats we picked up in Hastings?”
“Yes?”
“Well, I know of seven fellows they ’ve se home.”
“What!” Hugh cried, his eyes wide with horrc “You don’t mean that you—that you—”
“I mean exactly that,” Carl replied in a low, fl voice. He rose and moved to the other side of ti room. “I mean exactly that; and Doc Conne agrees with me,” he added sarcastically. Th more softly, “He’s got to tell the dean. That why I ’m going home.”
Hugh was swept simultaneously by revulsion ai sympathy. “God, I’m sorry,” he exclaime “Oh, Carl, I’m so damn sorry.”
Carl was standing by Hugh’s desk, his han clenched, his lips compressed. “Keep my junk,” said unevenly, “and sell anything you want to if y live in the house next year.”
“But you ’ll be back?”
