Pittsey, evidently waiting for him, in the room. "Hello!" they greeted his despondence. "What does His Holiness say?"
He sat down, wearily, to tell them of his interviews with "His Holiness"—as they called the Dean—and with the President, whom Pittsey referred to as "Old Skeesicks." And he concluded, in a hopeless resignation that was more for himself than Conroy: "You'd better go home and tell your father, before the Board meets. You'd better not let him hear the first of it from them."
"Not on your life!" Conroy replied. "I'm not going home."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to get out of reach until this blows over." He look at Pittsey as if referring the leadership in their plans to him; and Pittsey, having emptied his lungs of cigarette smoke, exclaimed: "We're going to New York."
Don stared incredulously. Pittsey, with his hat on the back of his head, his chair tilted, smiled an amused challenge to his amazement.
"New But—but what are you going to do?"
Conroy replied recklessly: "Oh, we'll find something, I guess. Pittsey is going into newspaper work. He has a brother there. I have enough money to keep me for a month or two—till the governor comes around again."
Don cried: "But supposing he doesn't come round!"
"Well, Great Scott!" Conroy said, "I'm not a three-year-old, and I'm sick of being treated as if I were.
