With this thought in mind he started to glide away, but he was too late. The door he had banged with his elbow suddenly opened, and a voice demanded in peremptory tones:
"Well, what is it?"
"Great Scott!" gasped Tom. "It's Simond!" for the countenance of the instructor was thrust from the half-opened portal.
"Well?" went on the rather grim voice, as Tom hesitated. "You knocked."
"It—it was an accident," stammered Tom.
"Oh. Then you don't want me?"
"No, sir."
"Is anything the matter?"
"No, Mr. Simond."
"Then what are you doing up on this floor? You're Parsons, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you room on the floor below?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then what are you doing up here at this hour of the night; knocking at my door?"
"I—er—it was an accident, you see. I was—I was exercising."
"Exercising?" There was a note of incredulity in the voice.
"Yes, exercising."
"What for?" Cold sarcasm now took the place of surpise.
