Kerwin's fraternity house stood on a prominent corner three blocks
above the book-store. Norse rushed up the steps and inside without
stopping to take breath. There was no one in the smoking-room; that is
to say, no one but a high school pledgling, who sat in front of the
fire, reading, and pledglings don't count.
"Is Kerwin here?" Norse gasped, leaning heavily against the door.
The youth at the fire turned, nonchalantly, and removing a cigarette
from between his lips, as calmly as though panting freshmen with
obviously loaded minds were but ordinary phenomena, replied:
"No. Saw him going out just as I came in. Said he wouldn't be back to
dinner."
"Where did he go?"
"No idea." The pledgling flecked the ash from his cigarette.
"Well, I'm going up to his room a minute," Norse cried, turning back
into the hallway.
"Told you he isn't there!" the infant called after him; but Norse did
not seem to hear.
He knew the location of Kerwin's room from previous visits. Now he found
it deserted. He perceived all the appointments with one sweep of his
eyes--the signs, the tennis-net draped between the front windows and
sagging with photographs, the huge Japanese umbrella dependent from the
ceiling with many little favors and a multitude of dance cards dangling
from the rim, the black-oak study-table, the swivel chair in front of
it, the Comedy Club poster on the door, and the closet that projected
rudely into the room.
A hand-bag lay on the floor in a corner. Norse did not pause to reflect,
as, being the leading man in a stirring melodrama, he should have done.
He acted without reflection, mechanically almost; but when he started
back down the stairs, which he took in three leaps, he carried the
hand-bag, stuffed, now, and fat.
"What you got there?" the pledgling called as the figure passed the
smoking-room.
Norse did not waste breath replying.
The library clock was striking six as he issued into the street. He had
the work of an hour to accomplish in twenty-five minutes. Some freshmen,
under the circumstances, would have gritted their teeth and cursed.
Norse only gritted his teeth, for he was of another sort. Up South
University Avenue to Washtenaw he ran. There, on the northwest corner,
was a huge stone, set, doubtless, to prevent delivery boys from running
their wagons over the curbing. The wind had blown the snow clear of this
stone and Norse sank upon it, half exhausted. He proceeded to fix his
skates to the soles of his heavy shoes without waiting to regain his
breath. He stood up to test the clamps. They gripped viciously. Ahead
lay the road, gleaming in the pale light. Norse smiled. Through the
handles of the satchel he passed the skate strap and thrust his head
through the loop, that the bag might swing against his back. He dug the
point of one skate into the gritty crust, struck out with long, even
strokes, and began a swift ascent of the Scott Hill on the Middle Road
to Ypsilanti.