of the damn things to kill you oil?” He pulled a flask out of his desk drawer and held it out in¬ vitingly.
Hugh laughed. “You told me yourself that that stuff was catgut and that you would n’t drink it on a bet. Besides, you know that I don’t drink. If I’m going to make my letter, I’ve got to keep in trim.”
“Right you are. Wish I knew what to do with this poison. If I leave it around here, the biddy ’ll get hold of it, and then God help us. I ’ll tell you what: after it gets dark to-night we ’ll take it down and poison the waters of dear old Indian Lake.”
“All right. Say, I’ve got to pike along; I’ve got a date with my faculty adviser. Hope I don’t have to stand in line.”
He didn’t have to stand in line—he was per¬ mitted to sit—but he did have to wait an hour and a half. Finally a student came out of the inner office, and a gruff voice from within called, “Next!”
“Just like a barber shop,” flashed across Hugh’s mind as he entered the tiny office.
An old-young man was sitting behind a desk shuf¬ fling papers. He glanced up as Hugh came in and motioned him to a chair beside him. Hugh sat down and stared at his feet.
“Um, let’s see. Your name’s—what?”
“Carver, sir. Hugh Carver.”
The adviser, Professor Kane, glanced at some
