Page:The plastic age, (IA plasticage00mark).pdf/51

Rh *tiously he got up and began to tiptoe to the door.

“Wrong room?” the instructor asked pleasantly.

Hugh flushed. “Yes, sir.” He stopped dead still, not knowing what to do next.

He was a typical rattled freshman, and the class, which was composed of sophomores, laughed. Hugh, angry and humiliated, started for the door, but the instructor held up a hand that silenced the class; then he motioned for Hugh to come to his desk.

“What class are you looking for?”

“English One, sir, Section Seven.” He held out his schedule card, reassured by the instructor’s kindly manner.

The instructor looked at the card and then con¬ sulted a printed schedule.

“Oh,” he said, “your adviser made a mistake. He got you into the wrong group list. You be¬ long in Sanders Six.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hugh spoke so softly that the waiting class did not hear him, but the instruc¬ tor smiled at the intensity of his thanks. As he left the room, he knew that every one was looking at him; his legs felt as if they were made of wood. It was n’t until he had closed the door that his kneejoints worked naturally. But the worst was still ahead of him. He had to go to his English class in Sanders 6. He ran across the campus, his heart beating wildly, his hands desperately clenched.