Clif felt ashamed of the deception he was attempting.
"I don't think so, sir. He didn't go down to supper, but I guess he will be all right by morning."
"I hope so. I'm not so sure, though, you shouldn't have gone to some one on Kemble's floor. He's in 34, isn't he? However, as you are acting in his behalf, and you are on my floor, I'll take the responsibility of excusing him. Is he in bed?"
"N-no, sir. That is, he wasn't when I was up there."
"Oh, better tell him to get to bed, Bingham. That's the best place for him, no matter what's wrong. Probably just an upset of his tummy. You chaps take awful chances, the way in which you stuff yourselves with sweet chocolate and peanuts and Heaven only knows what! By the way, Kemble's on restriction, isn't he?"
"Yes, sir. He got in wrong with 'Alick'—I mean Mr. Wyatt!"
Mr. McKnight's nose twitched, but he didn't smile. "Too bad. I dare say that's upset him somewhat, too. I'll look in on him a little later and see if he needs anything."
"I'm sure he doesn't, sir," said Clif hurriedly, striving to keep the sound of panic from his voice. "I think he means to go to sleep."
"Best thing for him. Tell him it's all right about study hour, Bingham, and that he's to get into bed. I don't want to find him up, reading stories, when I call!"
"Yes, sir—I mean no, sir!" stammered Clif. "I'll tell him. I don't believe he'd want you to bother about
