His perplexity was so genuine that Clif's severity relaxed in spite of himself. It was, he decided, no use trying to stay angry with this chap, and having reached that decision he felt much relieved, and laughed frankly at the puzzled Kemble. Whereupon Kemble's brow cleared and he grinned back.
"You're a perfect ass," declared Clif indulgently.
"No one is perfect," Kemble demurred modestly, "although some of us do come pretty close."
"Just the same, you were a good deal of a rotter to sit there and—and make fun—"
"Yes, I was, Bingham, and I'm sorry. I apologize, honestly. It isn't much of an excuse, I know, but—but I wasn't feeling very chipper myself."
Clif nodded. Kemble, of course, was referring to that session with Mr. Wyatt. Then:
"Maybe," added Kemble more constrainedly, "I'll tell you about it some time."
"Oh!" said Clif, for want of anything better. Kemble was staring frowningly at the nearby checker board. Observing him, Clif sensed a matter more serious than the recent English quiz. A silence that might have become slightly awkward in another moment was dispelled by the golden tones of the clock across the corridor. They reached Clif even above the noise of the room, and he sprang to his feet. "Gee! Seven-thirty! I've got to beat it, Kemble. Listen; I—"
"Go ahead. I'm with you."
In the corridor, where half a dozen boys were awaiting their turns at the telephone booths outside the Office,
