"Hello," he rapped out. "What's this mean?"
"Oh, darn it all, Renny. I didn't know it was you!" He slid back the bolt and stood sheepish and red.
"Did you think it was the canary fellow come to get the lottery ticket?" He grinned down at Finch sarcastically.
Finch mumbled: "Thought it was Piers."
"Why? Had you been pinching something of his?"
The random shot went home. The boy's flush deepened, he stammered a weak denial, and Renny's grin exploded in a laugh. "You're certainly going to the dogs! What was it—ties? Cigarettes?"
"Cigarettes."
"H'm. . . . Well, here is your fee for the term. I should have sent it by cheque, but—the truth is, my account is a bit overdrawn. Just hand it to the bursar—and no frenzied finance on the way!" He laid a dollar on the envelope. "Get some fags for yourself, and cut out this light-fingered business. Also, keep inside your allowance."
Finch's hand shook as he took the money. He brought the lamp to light his elder down the stairs. "Is Wake feeling rocky to-night?" he asked, heavily.
"Yes."
"Gosh, I'm sorry."
He watched the lean figure descend, noticing how the lamplight sought the warm russet of leather leggings and close-cropped head. He wished to God he'd some of Renny's ginger!
Strength from music—that was what he wanted. He thought of the ivory expanse of the keyboard, and felt an ache through his soul, a quiver through his arms. . . .
Carefully he placed the notes in a shabby leather pocket-book; then from his desk he took an old mouth-organ. He went into the clothes closet and shut the door. Then, putting his head under the tail of a heavy overcoat to muffle the sound, he laid his lips against the instrument and began wistfully to play.
