he found a door with 19 on it. He knocked.
“What th’ hell! Come in.” The voice was im¬ patiently cheerful.
Hugh pushed open the door and entered the room to meet wild confusion—and his room-mate. The room was a clutter of suit-cases, «trunks, clothes, banners, unpacked furniture, pillows, pic¬ tures, golf-sticks, tennis-rackets, and photographs— dozens of photographs, all of them of girls appar¬ ently. In the middle of the room a boy was on his knees before an open trunk. He had sleek black hair, parted meticulously in the center, a slender face with rather sharp features and large black eyes that almost glittered. His lips were full and very red, almost too red, and his cheeks seemed to be colored with a hard blush.
“Hullo,” he said in a clear voice as Hugh came in. “Who are you?”
Hugh flushed slightly. “I’m Carver,” he an¬ swered, “Hugh Carver.”
The other lad jumped to his feet, revealing, to Hugh’s surprise, golf knickers. He was tall, slen¬ der, and very neatly built.
“Hell!” he exclaimed. “I ought to have guessed that.” He held out his hand. “I’m Carl Peters, the guy you’ve got to room with—and God help you.”
Hugh dropped his suit-cases and shook hands. “Guess I can stand it,” he said with a quick laugh
