Jane looked at him, with as near a quizzical expression as her very
unquizzical nature would permit.
"You know I'd do it if you weren't so stubborn about using a
wastebasket instead of that desk," she said.
"Better clean it out, Jane--clean it all out--anything, anything,--"
but she was gone. He took the tract which she had left on his table
and carefully tore it in four pieces, and hid them under the mattress.
Then he went to sleep. The professor was in distinctly a rebellious
mood.
In the natural course of time, which, when one has numerous queer
pains in most unexpected places, is short,--the professor awoke and
lay on his back watching a fly walking around the edge of a rosebud.
Pretty soon the fly flew away--then the professor thought of something
else--something he had not thought of for some years. Strange how
inactivity of the body affects one. The professor raised himself in
bed with some effort and drew on his dressing gown and slippers. Then
he hobbled across the room, out of the door, and down the hallway
towards his study.
At the turn of the narrow corridor the odor of long-hidden dust met
him,--and he hobbled faster.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191