"And I don't know the hour," said Higginson, still hesitating.
"But I do," said Babcock. "It 's half-past five. Listen, Higginson, and don't be a fool. That 's how men are made in this country. Do as I tell you."
Professor Higginson, wondering vaguely how he could be "made," and what happened when a man was so dealt with by those that govern us, took a sheet of the University paper, and wrote out carefully that horribly familiar note. He hesitated at the superscription.
"What is he?" he asked.
"Who?" said Babcock.
"Why, this Mr. , this something Barclay."
"You 've got it there, you fool," said Babcock without courtesy. "Leonard Barclay, Leonard Barclay, Esq. Simple enough, isn't it? "
"I thought," murmured Professor Higginson, "I didn't know—er it was possible that he might have had a"
"Father?" blurted out Babcock. "Not that I know of. No one knows where he comes from, 'xcept Mrs. Camp, and she comes from Chicago."
