“Miss Philock, or I’m a sinner!” ejaculated Tom.
The moon came out from behind a rift of clouds, throwing the figures into bold relief.
“Look out where you’re going!” warned a man’s voice.
“Pitchfork!” gasped Sid in a hoarse whisper. “Our Latin professor!”
“And look who he’s with!” added Frank.
Down bore the ice boat on the two, like a juggernaut of fate.
“Oh! Oh mercy!” screamed Miss Philock, as she saw the danger.
“Don’t you dare to run us down!” cautioned Mr. Tines imperiously.
“Tom—Sid, lend me a hand with this rudder!” cried Dutch. “It’s jammed!”
The three students tried in vain to change the course of the craft. Nearer and nearer it came to the luckless two, who were on the frozen river. There was a scream of fear, a chorus of angry cautions, and then the ice boat struck.
The feet of Professor Tines went gracefully from under him, and he sat down on the very bow of the ice boat, clinging to a mast stay. As for Miss Philock, she was struck by one of the runners, tossed into the air, and came down in the blanket-padded cockpit, fortunately striking none of the boys.
Then, with a lurch the boat slewed around, and headed for shore. A moment later, being unguided, she seemed to change her mind, and did a sort of waltz and two-step combined. Next, with a sharp swing, the craft turned gracefully on her side, and there was a splintering sound as the mast snapped, and the sail came down, like a blanket over all.
CHAPTER X
A MISSING PICTURE
“This is an outrage! It was done purposely! I shall demand severe punishment for the perpetrators of it!”
Thus exclaimed Professor Emerson Tines, his voice half smothered under the sail of the ice boat.
“Oh, what has happened? Are we sinking? Are we going through the ice?” cried Miss Philock.
It was almost beyond the power of the lads to give any adequate description of what had happened, so rapidly had events shaped themselves. Tom managed to crawl out of the tilted cockpit.
“Allow me,” he said, in his best manner, as he extended his hand to help up Miss Philock.
“Oh! Are you sure there’s no danger?” she asked, hesitating to trust herself to him. “Is there a hole in the ice?”
“None whatever,” Tom assured her. “Unfortunately we ran you down with the ice boat, but I trust you are not hurt.”
Just then Phil managed to scramble out of the tangle of sail and mast, and his face was revealed in the moonlight. Miss Philock knew him for the brother of one of her charges.
“Oh, Mr. Clinton!” she cried. “I never would have believed it of you!”
“An accident, I do assure you,” interposed Phil. “It could not be helped. I hope you are not hurt, Professor Tines.”
“Hurt! Humph! Little you care whether I am or not. I shall report you to Dr. Churchill as soon as I reach college. It is scandalous!”
The Latin teacher managed to scramble to his feet, ignoring the proffered hand of Phil. Sid, Frank and Dutch managed to crawl out from under the ice boat.
“Whew!” whistled Dutch, looking at the broken mast.
“I thought you said you could steer,” growled Frank.
“I could, only the rudder got jammed. It wasn’t my fault. Wow! This is tough!”
By this time Tom had assisted Miss Philock to the shore, and Professor Tines, seeing the lady, whom it developed later, he had been escorting from a lecture, hastened to join her.
“I trust you have suffered no injuries,” he said.
“No. And you, Professor Tines?” she asked, and Tom fancied there was a note of anxiety in her voice.
“Oh I am all right, except that I am very much upset over this annoyance.”
“I fancy we all were,” said Miss Philock, with better grace than Tom had dared hoped she would show. “It was an accident.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said the Latin teacher grimly.
“Oh, it was, I assure you!” broke in Dutch earnestly. “I couldn’t work the rudder. We—we didn’t mean to do it.”
There was silence for a moment, during which the boys looked first at the damaged and overturned ice boat, and then at the figures of the professor, and the lady teacher of Fairview.
“I—er—I think we had better be getting on, Mr. Tines,” the lady said, at length. “It is getting late.”
It was a gentle hint, and he took it.
“I shall see you young gentlemen later,” said the professor significantly, as he started up the river bank with Miss Philock.
“And it’s us for a walk back,” spoke Tom slowly, when they had remained in silence for about a minute. “Dutch, we are much obliged for your evening of pleasure,” he added sarcastically.
“Oh, hang it all, I didn’t mean——” began the fun-loving lad.
“Oh, forget it! Of course it wasn’t your fault,” broke in Sid. “Come on. Let’s haul the boat up on shore, and hoof it back. We can explain to Zane.”
Fortunately for themselves our friends had held good records of late, and the proctor did not question them too closely, as they drifted in some time after the locking-up hour. They told of the accident, but did not mention Mr. Tines and his companion.
“We’ll just hold that in reserve,” decided Tom. “Fancy him being out with Miss Philock!”
Probably the walk back to Randall from Fairview gave Professor Tines a chance to change his views regarding the happening of the night. For, though he looked rather grimly at our heroes in chapel the next morning, he said nothing, and there was no official report of the occurrence, for which Tom and his chums were duly thankful.
“Pitchfork is more of a gentleman than we gave him credit for,” he declared. “We each have something to hold over him in reserve, for I don’t believe he’d like the story told broadcast.”
Dutch and the others clubbed together to pay for the damage to the ice boat, and the owner said they could use it as often as they wished. But there was no more chance that Winter for Spring came with a rush after that last big freeze, and there were no more cold weather sports.
Now indeed did the talk turn to ball games, and track athletics. The latter had the call, for it was something new for Randall, and the other institutions of learning that formed the four-sided league.
Several committee meetings were held, and a more or less tentative program was made up. Available material was talked of, and every day saw more and more candidates in the gymnasium, out on the cinder path, or in the hammer circle.
“Have you any line of what Boxer Hall is doing?” asked Tom of Dan Woodhouse one afternoon, when a number of the lads were gathered in the reading room of the gymnasium after some hard practice.
“Well, they’re going strong,” replied Kindlings. “But if we all keep on the job here at Randall, and do our best, I think we can win. But every fellow has got to do his best.”
“Sure,” assented Sid.
“Are Langridge and Gerhart entered?” Frank wanted to know.
“Yes; both of ’em. But don’t let that worry you. There are others at Boxer Hall more to be feared than those two. I tell you we’re not going to have a walkover. Exter is going to show up strong, too, for a new college.”
A group of lads were gathered about a table on which were several sporting papers, containing a number of photographs of athletes, and showing scenes at various meets.
“I tell you fellows what it is,” put in Shambler, who seemed to have gotten very much at home in the few weeks he had been at Randall, “practice is the only thing that will help us win the championship. I know, for I’ve been through the mill. We’ve got to practice more.”
“Did you do it at Harkness?” asked Phil.
“Yes, some, but I’ve trained by myself a lot,” and there was a trace of boastfulness in his voice. “I’m going to make the mile run,” he added.
“And win?” asked Sid, half sarcastically, turning over a pile of papers.
“Sure,” assented Shambler. “I—er—” Suddenly he reached out and picked a paper from amid the pile. He seemed to be nervously folding it in his hands. “I used to be a good runner,” he went on, “and there’s no reason why I can’t do as well again. I think I’d rather do that than be in the high or broad jump. But of course——”
“All the candidates will have a try-out,” put in Kindlings. “The best one wins, and he ought to be willing to do the best that’s in him for Randall.”
“Of course,” assented Shambler, and he seemed glad of the interruption, still nervously folding the paper.
A few minutes later he left the room rather hurriedly, and, some time after that, Phil began looking through the pile of illustrated papers for a certain one.
“It was here a while ago,” he said to Kindlings. “I wanted to show you how they had the hurdles arranged at the last intercollegiate meet in New York. It’s a good idea I think. Where the mischief is that paper?”
“Which one?” asked Tom, who was reading a book on training rules.
“The one Shambler was looking at. Oh, here he comes now. What’d you do with that sporting paper, Shambler?” asked Phil.
“Oh—er—that paper—here it is,” and he pulled it from his pocket. “Guess I stuck it there by mistake.”
He tossed it over, and turned into the billiard room, with a backward glance at the lads who were now bending over the pages of the journal.
“That’s what I mean,” went on Phil, pointing to an illustration. “Hello, the page is torn. It wasn’t a while ago.”
“What’s on the other side?” asked Kindlings half curiously.
“Some baseball nine—I can’t read all the name—it’s some professional team,” replied Phil, “and one of the players is missing—torn off. Well, never mind, you can see the hurdles, though. I think we might use that kind at our meet.”
Then the two fell to talking of various forms of athletic apparatus, eventually tossing the paper aside. Tom picked it up when his two friends had gone in to have a game of pool.
“That page wasn’t torn before Shambler picked this paper up,” mused our hero. “I wonder what his object was?”
CHAPTER XI
THE WAY OF A MAID
“Who’s it from, Phil?”
“Let’s read it; will you?”
“He doesn’t dare?”
These comments greeted the advent of Phil into the room of the inseparables, after a late lecture, one day about a week following the events narrated in the last chapter. The cause was a pink envelope that was exposed in a prominent place on Phil’s bureau—an envelope flanked by a comb, brush, a handkerchief box and a red tie, to be thus rendered all the more conspicuous. Tom, Sid and Frank, having entered the room ahead of their chum, and seeing the missive, had thus called his attention to it.
“What’s all the excitement?” asked Phil innocently enough.
“As if he didn’t know!” jeered Tom.
“I’ll give you a quarter if you let me read it first,” offered Frank.
“Double it!” cried Sid promptly.
“Oh, it’s a letter,” spoke Phil, as he strode over to his bureau and picked up the missive. Then, with provoking slowness, he turned it over, scrutinized the postmark, looked at the dainty seal in wax, and made as if to place the letter back on the bureau.
“Open it you rascal!” ordered Tom.
“What for?” asked Phil slowly. “It’s only a letter from sis. It will keep until I get my coat off, I guess.”
“A letter from your sister—not!” declared Sid. “I—er—I know——”
“Oh, you know her writing as well as all that, do you?” asked Phil quickly. “I congratulate you. Maybe I’m wrong.”
Once more he scrutinized the address. It bore his name in big, and rather sprawling characters.
“On second thoughts I guess it isn’t from sis,” he went on. “At least she didn’t direct the envelope. It’s from Madge Tyler, if I’m any judge.”
“What’s she writing about?” Tom wanted to know quickly, so quickly that the others glanced at him, and Tom had the grace to blush.
“We’ll see,” went on Phil. Then, with exasperating slowness he proceeded to read the letter. Next he carefully folded it, placed it back in the envelope, and proceeded to get into his lounging garments.
“Well?” snapped Tom, unable to keep silent longer.
“Oh, I don’t know whether you fellows will be interested or not,” said Phil slowly. “The letter was from my sister, just as I guessed, but she got Madge to direct the envelope.”
“But what’s it about?” demanded Sid.
“Oh, the annual May walk, which takes place the last of April, is about to be held at Fairview,” went on Phil, “and sis thought maybe I’d like to go with her.”
“You?” cried Tom.
“Take your own sister?” added Sid.
“Well, unless some one else relieves me——”
“I will!” cried Frank and Sid together.
“Thanks,” laughed Phil. “Then I guess I can help some other brother out. But, say, do you fellows want to go? Sis said I could ask you all. It’s the usual affair, you know. The young ladies of Fairview, under the eagle eye of Miss Philock and her aides, will go for a May walk, to gather flowers and look on nature as she is supposed to be. There will be a little basket lunch, and the usual screams when the girls think they see a snake. Want to go?”
“Sure!” cried Tom, and the others chorused an eager assent.
“It will be a good time then, to ask the girls to come to the athletic meet,” said Sid. “They will come; won’t they?”
“Oh, I guess so,” replied Phil. “They won’t root for Randall, though, when there’s going to be a team from their own school.”
“Oh, we couldn’t expect it,” said Tom. “But we’ll have a good time on the May walk.” And forthwith he proceeded to look over his stock of neckties.
Not many at Randall were favored as were our four heroes in the matter of invitations to the May walk, and when it became known that Tom and his chums had one of the coveted screeds, their good offices were bespoken on all sides, that they might use their influence for others.
“Nothing doing,” replied Tom to Holly Cross, Kindlings, and a few other kindred spirits. “Sorry, but we can’t do it.”
“And the nerve of Shambler,” said Sid one afternoon, as he joined his chums. “He wanted to know if we couldn’t introduce him to some new girl at Fairview. The one he did know, shook him.”
“He’s getting worse all the while,” declared Tom. “There is something about that fellow that I can’t cotton to.”
“But he’s a good runner and jumper,” declared Phil.
“Altogether too good,” declared Tom. “If he did as well at Harkness, as he’s doing here in practice, why did he leave?”
“Maybe he wanted to get in a bigger college.”
“Harkness isn’t much smaller than Randall, and it’s got a heap sight more money. He could have stayed on if he had wanted to,” and Tom shook his head. Two or three things in regard to Shambler recurred to him, and he found himself seriously wondering whether or not there was not some mystery about the new student.
“Oh, pshaw! I guess I’m getting too fussy,” decided Tom. “I must see about getting my trousers pressed for that walk.”
Somewhat informally among themselves, the four lads had apportioned the four girls. Tom was to take Madge, Phil would escort Helen Newton, Sid would take Ruth Clinton, and Frank Simpson would look after Mabel Harrison. This pleased the lads, but they had yet to ask the girls if this arrangement suited. To Tom was delegated this task, and one afternoon he set off with three notes, his own to be a verbal message.
The choice had fallen on his shoulders as he had the last lecture period free, and could make time to go to Fairview. It was with rather pleasant feelings that our hero took the trolley to the co-educational institution, and, when he neared the place, as it was such a fine day, he got out about a mile from his destination, deciding to walk the rest of the way.
As Tom turned down a grassy lane, that was rich in a carpet of green, he heard, coming from a clump of bushes just ahead of him, a cry of pain—a cry in a girl’s voice.
“Some one’s in trouble!” Tom decided at once, and, naturally he hurried to the rescue. He saw, reaching up that she might pull a large cocoon from a high bush, a pretty girl, a stranger, but who bore unmistakably the air of a Fairview student. In an instant Tom saw what the trouble was.
The bush was one containing big thorns, and, in reaching for the cocoon, the girl’s arm had caught on a sharp point. She was held by her sleeve in such a way that either to advance her arm, or withdraw it, meant to further pierce her flesh with the thorn.
“Oh!” she cried, and then Tom came on the scene.
“Perhaps I can help you,” he said, with a lifting of his hat. “Do you want the cocoon?”
“Yes. Oh, but don’t mind that now! If you can break off the thorn, so I can get my arm out——”
A spasm of pain passed over her face, and Tom acted quickly. He wore heavy gloves, but the thorns pierced even through them. But he did not mind, and soon had broken away the offending branch, not before, however, the girl, in moving her arm, had inflicted a long scratch that bled freely.
“Oh!” she murmured, and she reeled a bit as she stepped back. “I—I can’t bear the sight of blood!” she added.
Tom caught her, or she might have fainted, and then, being a lad of promptness, he quickly bound his handkerchief around the scratch.
“If you will sit down here, I think I can get some water over at that house,” he went on. “It will make you feel better.”
“Oh,” she began, “it is such a bother—I’m so sorry.”
“Not at all,” Tom hastened to assure her, and in a little while he was back with a glass of water. It did make the girl feel better, and, presently, she arose.
“I’m all right, now, thank you,” she murmured, as she walked along. Tom watched her narrowly. “I ought to have worn gloves, or else have brought along a pair of scissors,” she went on. “We have to do some work in the natural history class, and that’s why I wanted the cocoon. I’m at Fairview,” she needlessly added.
“I’m on my way there,” spoke Tom. “My name is Parsons. Ruth Clinton’s brother and I——”
“Oh, I’ve heard about you,” the girl interrupted with a smile that Tom thought was very attractive. “Ruth was telling me about you.”
“That’s nice,” laughed Tom, and then he caught sight of the cocoon that had been the cause of all the trouble. “Wait, I’ll get it for you,” he volunteered, and he did though he scratched himself grievously on the thorns.
“I’ll walk on with you,” he said, as he rejoined the girl. “I have a note for Ruth.”
“I’m Miss Benson,” said the girl, simply. “I am sure I can’t thank you enough, and I feel as if I already knew you.”
“Good!” cried Tom, wondering how it was he got along so well with girls, when he never before had been used to them.
They walked on, talking of many things—and the May outing. The main entrance of Fairview loomed in sight.
“What shall I do about your handkerchief, Mr. Parsons?” asked Miss Benson. “I’m afraid if I take it off now——”
She started to do so, but at the sight of a little blood trickling down her wrist she shuddered.
“Keep it on,” advised Tom. “You can send it to me later. Perhaps you had better have a doctor look at the scratch. It may need treatment. Some of those thorns are poisonous.”
Instinctively he leaned over and began tightening the handkerchief on the girl’s wrist. He was engaged in this rather delicate task when, from behind a clump of shrubbery, stepped four maids. In an instant Tom knew them for Phil’s sister and her three chums. They regarded him and his companion curiously.
“Why—it’s Tom!” exclaimed Ruth impulsively.
“Yes. He—he helped me out of a bad predicament,” explained Miss Benson. “I was caught on a thorn bush. I’ve scratched my wrist dreadfully, girls.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Tyler, rather blankly, and Tom thought it was strange that none of the girls seemed to take much interest in Miss Benson’s injury. She herself smiled at Tom, and then said:
“I’ll go along now, to the infirmary. I’m so much obliged to you. I’ll send the handkerchief back. It was so fortunate for me that I met you.”
“She generally manages to meet somebody,” murmured Miss Harrison, and Tom wondered more than ever as he lifted his hat in farewell.
“How are you?” greeted Tom, to Ruth and the others. “I’m a sort of special messenger to-day.”
He pulled out his letters—one for Ruth, one for Mabel, and one for Helen.
“None for me?” asked Madge, in mock distress.
“I—er—I came in person,” spoke Tom in a low voice, as he saw that the others were perusing the epistles that formally besought the company of the young ladies on the May walk.
“Oh——” began Miss Tyler.
“May I have the honor of escorting you on the outing?” asked Tom, laughing to take out the formality of his request.
Miss Madge Tyler looked at him a moment. Then her gaze seemed to wander toward the retreating form of Miss Benson. Tom waited, wonderingly.
“I thank you,” said Madge, a bit stiffly, “but I—am already engaged,” and she turned aside, while Tom swallowed hard.
Clearly he was but beginning to know the way of a maid.
CHAPTER XII
IN BITTER SPIRITS
“Come on, Tom, aren’t you going to tog up?”
“Yes, get a move on, we don’t want to be late.”
“Let’s see the new tie you bought.”
Thus did the tall pitcher’s chums address him as they circled about the all too small room when it came to the pinch of all four dressing at once, and that in their best outfits, which indicated an occasion of more than usual importance.
But Tom was not dressing. In his most comfortable, which is to say his oldest garments, he lounged on the rickety old sofa, with a book in his hand, and a novel at that.
But he was not reading, a fact which a close observer could have at once detected, only there were no close observers in evidence that pleasant afternoon—the afternoon of the May walk of Fairview.
Tom glanced from time to time at the printed page but he saw nothing of the words. Instead, there came between him and the types, the vision of a girl’s face—an imperious face now, with eyes that looked coldly at him.
“Say, you’ll be late!” warned Phil, “and we’re not going to wait for you. You’ll have to save your own bacon.”
“Oh—all right,” grumbled Tom, in tones he meant to be deceiving. “No use of any more trying to dress in this bandbox. I can throw my things on in a jiffy when you fellows get out of the way.”
“Listen to him,” taunted Sid.
“I’ll bet he’s got a whole new outfit,” declared Frank, “and he daren’t show ’em. Come on—be a sport!”
“Um,” mumbled Tom, as he turned once more to the book—but not to read.
“Where’s my hair brush?” demanded Phil. “If any of you fellows—Well the nerve of you, Sid!” he cried. “Using it on your shoes!”
“They’re patent leathers, and I only wanted to get a little dust off ’em,” pleaded the guilty one.
“Hand it over!” sternly ordered Phil. “And don’t you take it again. Use your pocket handkerchief.”
“Who’s seen my purple cuff buttons?” asked Frank.
“Haven’t got ’em. I saw Wallops the messenger with a pair like ’em the other day, though,” spoke Sid. “Wear the blue ones.”
“I will not! I got the purple ones to match my tie. Oh, here they are. I put ’em in my Latin grammar to mark a page. Say, it’s lucky I remembered.”
“It’s lucky some of you remember you’ve got heads,” half growled Tom. “I never saw such old maids! Don’t some of you want me to dab a little red on your cheeks?”
“Cut it out, and come on, you old Iambus,” grunted Phil—grunted because he was stooping over to lace his shoes. “Aren’t you coming, Tom?”
“Of course. But I want room to dress. You fellows clear out, and I’ll follow soon enough.”
“Where’s the clothes brush?” demanded Frank, who was the nearest ready. “Say, there’s enough dust in this room to stock a vacuum cleaner. Whew!”
“The rug needs taking up and beating,” commented Sid.
“Never!” cried Phil. “If we got it up it would fall apart, and we’d never get it down again. Let well enough alone. There, I guess I’m finished. How do I look?”
“Like one of the advertisements of college-built clothes from a back-woods tailor,” said Tom. “You’re too sweet to live! You’ll have all the girls crazy about you.”
“You’re jealous,” was the retort. “Get a move on, fellows.”
“Oh, sit down and take it easy,” advised Sid, who was struggling with a new tie in a stiff collar. “Whew! This is fierce. I can’t make it slide.”
“Put it out on first then,” advised Tom with a grin.
Finally the three were arrayed to their own satisfaction, and prepared to depart.
“Shall we wait for you outside?” asked Phil of Tom.
“No, go on, get a car. I’ll follow. I want to finish this chapter. There’s loads of time. You’re too early. Sit down and cool off.”
“What, and get all dust! I guess not!” cried Sid. “Come on, fellows.”
“See you later?” asked Phil, as he went out.
“Later—yes,” replied Tom, pretending to yawn and stretch, as though the whole affair bored him. And then, as the door closed, and he heard his chums walking down the corridor, he threw the book across the room, leaned forward with his head between his hands, his elbows on his knees, and gave way to bitter thoughts.
For Tom Parsons was not going on the May walk.
Many besides our three friends had fearfully, and more or less wonderfully, arrayed themselves that afternoon for the annual outing, and soon all roads seemed to be leading to Fairview. Sid, Phil and Frank were among the earliest arrivals, and soon found Ruth, Mabel and Helen, who were waiting for them.
“Where’s Tom?” asked Ruth of her brother.
“Oh, he’s coming later. He didn’t want to tog up with us in the room. Guess he’s got a new suit. But where’s Madge?”
There was an embarrassed silence among the girls, and then Mabel said:
“She started out early, and wouldn’t say where she was going. I thought she acted very strangely.”
“Say, she and Tom are up to some joke!” declared Phil. “I thought there was something queer about Tom.”
“Then we’ll see ’em later,” suggested Sid. “Come on, it’s too nice to stand still.”
They strolled on toward the clump of woods where the lunch was to be eaten—happy lads and gay lassies with Springtime in their hearts.
And, back in the room of the four chums, sat a solitary figure—a figure on the old rickety sofa—a figure that stared moodily down at the faded rug—a figure that did not stir as the minutes were ticked off on the fussy little alarm clock.
Out on the campus sounded the calls of a crowd of lads at ball practice. Farther off could be heard the cries of those who were leaping, running or throwing weights in anticipation of the track games. But the figure in the room gave no heed to this.
Not moving, Tom continued to stare at nothing, and the bitterness of his spirit grew on him.
“I can’t understand—I can’t understand,” he murmured, over and over again.
CHAPTER XIII
TOM SEES SOMETHING
“What do you suppose keeps him?” asked Sid.
“Who?” inquired Phil, as he strolled beside Helen Newton.
“Tom, of course. He ought to be here by this time.”
“Maybe he missed a car,” suggested Ruth.
“He’s had time to get three or four,” declared Frank. “I believe he’s playing some joke on us.”
“Then Madge Tyler is also,” spoke Mabel Harrison. “I wonder if she——”
“There she is now!” suddenly exclaimed Helen.
“And someone is with her. It isn’t——” began Ruth.
She stopped in sudden confusion, and all eyes were turned toward a little open place in the grove of trees, where two figures were seen—a youth and a maiden. And, though the girl was undoubtedly Madge, the youth was not Tom Parsons, and that fact held a world of meaning to all of them.
“It isn’t Tom,” finished Phil, after a moment of scrutiny. “Who is it! He’s got his back turned this way.”
“Looks like Roger Barnes,” remarked Sid.
“No, I saw Roger with Clare Hopkins,” remarked Mabel, naming two of the students at the co-educational institution. “He tried to get up a ball game for to-day, but none of the other boys would agree to play. It isn’t Roger.”
“It can’t be Lem Sellig,” ventured Helen.
“Oh, come on, let’s find a good place to eat lunch,” proposed Ruth, with a laudable desire to change the embarrassing subject. “Maybe Tom will come along later. We must save him some.”
“Not too much,” objected Phil. “We’re hungry, and he could just as well have been here on time as not.”
“Phil, haven’t you any sense?” his sister managed to whisper to him. “Can’t you see that something has happened?”
“What?” asked Phil, innocently enough. Phil never was strong on intrigue.
“Oh! Stupid, I’ll tell you later!” whispered Ruth. “Don’t say anything more now.”
“That’s right,” admitted Phil good-naturedly. “Every time I open my mouth I put my foot in it, as the poet says.”
They all laughed—rather constrainedly it is true, and more than one glance was directed toward Madge Tyler and her companion ere they disappeared amid the trees whence came the shouts and laughter of the parties that had come on the May walk.
“And that’s why Tom didn’t want to get dressed, and come with us,” murmured Phil in Sid’s ear when he got a chance. “He and Madge had a quarrel.”
“I guess so. But who’s she with?”
“Give it up. Pass the pickles; will you?”
Thus Phil got rid of his friend’s worriment.
“Oh!” suddenly screamed Ruth, as she made a quick movement away from where the table cloth was spread out. “Oh, take it away, somebody! Do!”
“What is it?” asked Sid solicitously. “A snake?”
“I don’t know, but it’s something big and black. I just saw it moving under the edge of that plate of cocoanut macaroons. Oh!”
“I don’t know what it is,” spoke Sid, as he reached his hand out toward the plate, “but be it a veritable salamander I’ll take it away. Those macaroons are too good to let a creeping or crawling thing make off with them. Come out, you villain!” he shouted, and lifted up the plate.
Something black, with whirring wings flew out from its hiding place under the plate. It made straight for Phil who, not exactly from fear, but from instinct, dodged. It was a fatal error for he lunged over toward the glass jar of lemonade and, a moment later, the beverage had upset, some of it flying over into the lap of Ruth.
“There, look what you’ve done!” she cried to her brother. “And this was my best dress, too! It’s ruined!”
She began wiping up the spots of lemonade with her handkerchief.
“It’ll come out,” consoled Phil, as he turned to look at the flight of the fluttering insect. “Take a little vinegar, or—er—something like that.”
“Lemonade’s an acid, and it needs an alkali to take it out,” declared Frank. “Vinegar is an acid too. It isn’t a case of like curing like in this case.”
“How do you know?” demanded Sid. “Did you ever take spots out of dresses?”
“No, but I did out of a pair of white trousers that had the same sort of a bath as Ruth’s dress got,” declared the Big Californian. “It worked fine, too.”
“I think lemonade is neutral,” put in Phil. “At least this is, for there’s none left. Sorry I spoiled the party.”
“Oh, there’s more,” spoke Helen. “I brought along a jar in my basket. Pass it over, will you please, Phil.”
The additional supply of lemonade was broached and they fell to talking merrily again, though there was an undercurrent of suspense noticeable. It was clear that the girls did not know what to make of the absence of Madge, and they tried to cover it up by gay laughter.
“Well, you didn’t happen to bring along any more sandwiches; did you Helen?” asked Phil with a sigh, as he finished his—well, but what’s the use in telling on a fellow, and keeping track of the number of sandwiches he eats? Suppose Phil did have a good appetite?
“Oh, Phil!” cried his sister. “You don’t mean to say you’re going to eat more; are you?”
“I am if I can get ’em to eat,” was his cool answer. “Some olives, too. You didn’t, by any chance, I suppose, Helen, put another bottle in that never-failing basket of yours; did you?”
“I certainly did,” she answered with a laugh. “I knew you boys would be hungry.”
“They’re never otherwise,” declared Ruth.
“Cruel sister, to treat her little brother so,” commented Phil, as he used the corkscrew on the bottle of olives, while Helen got out more sandwiches.
There was a sudden pop, and the olive bottle cork came out so unexpectedly that Phil, who was kneeling down to perform that delicate operation, went over backward, while Frank let out a cry of dismay.
“My eye! Oh, my eye!” he exclaimed, holding his hand to his face.
“What’s the matter with it?” demanded Sid anxiously. “Did a piece of cork get in it?”
“No, but about a gallon of that olive juice did!” retorted the afflicted one, as he used his handkerchief vigorously. “You did that on purpose, Phil.”
“I did not. The cork came out before I was ready for it. I don’t see why they put ’em in so tight.”
“All right, only don’t do it again,” begged Frank. “Say, but it smarts! I wonder what olive juice is made of, anyhow. I mean the stuff they swim the green fruit in.”
“Nothing but salt and water,” declared Phil.
“Nonsense. It’s sulphuric acid, to say the least,” declared Frank. “It feels so in my eye, anyhow. I wonder if they’re French or Italian olives?”
“What difference does it make?” asked Sid.
“Lots. I never can bear French olives, and I wouldn’t have the juice of them in my eye for anything.”
“Oh get out!” laughed Phil. “They’re Italian all right. Pass the mustard for the sandwiches, and let’s get this over with.”
“I thought you liked it,” spoke his sister.
“So I do, but if any more accidents happen I’ll lose my appetite.” And so the merry lunch went on.
The May walk was a great success—at least so nearly every one voted. If there were some who had little heart-burnings it was but natural perhaps, and they would not last long. Miss Philock was at her best, and allowed the girls under her charge more than the usual liberties. There was more or less formality connected with the affair, and some note-taking in regard to the flora encountered along the way was required. But it was, in most cases, the very smallest minimum that would serve to get the necessary class marks.
The lunches had been eaten, and the boys and girls strolled about the grove. Madge had not been near her chums all day, and they felt it keenly, though from a distance she had gaily waved her hand to them. The boys had rather lost interest in the identity of her companion.
“Oh, Phil,” called Helen to her escort as she saw a pretty flower growing on a woodland bank. “Get that for me, please. Look out for thorns, though.”
“A-la-Miss Benson?” asked Phil, referring to Tom’s escapade with the pretty girl.
“Yes,” assented Helen with a laugh and a blush. And then, as she looked at a stone at her feet she screamed.
“What is it?” cried Phil, scrambling down the bank with such haste that he slipped, and rolled nearly half the distance. “Did you sprain your ankle?”
“No, but it’s a horrid snake!”
She pointed to a little one, not bigger than an angle worm.
“Pooh!” sneered Phil. “It’s lost its mamma, that’s all. You shouldn’t scare the poor thing so by screaming.”
“Ugh! The horrid thing!” said Helen with a shudder, as Phil tossed the snake gently into the bushes. “I can’t bear anything that crawls.”
Then Phil, brushing the dirt from his new trousers, made another and successful attempt to get the flower. And so the day went on.
Back in his room Tom straightened up, and looked from the window. The afternoon was waning, and already long shadows athwart the campus told of the setting sun.
“Well!” he said aloud. “I might as well go out and walk about. They’ll be back pretty soon, and then——” he shrugged his shoulders. “What’s the use?” he asked himself, apropos of nothing in particular.
Some whim prompted him to board a car going in the direction of Fairview. The May walk he knew would be over by this time, save perhaps for a few stragglers. And he hoped—yet what did he hope?
Tom found himself walking through the little grove where the boys and girls of the college had eaten lunch a few hours before. The place seemed deserted now, though now and then a distant laugh told of some late-staying couple. The sun was almost down, sending golden-red shafts of light slanting through the newly-leafing trees.
Tom turned down a deserted path of beach trees. He walked on, not heeding his course until, as he neared a cross-trail, he heard voices. There was the soft tones of a girl, and the deeper rumble of a youth. Tom stepped back behind a sheltering trunk, and only just in time, for the couple suddenly stepped into view.
“Hasn’t it been a perfect day?” asked the youth.
“Yes—almost,” was his companion’s rather indifferent answer.
“Why not altogether, Miss Tyler?”
Tom started at this. He peered from behind the big beach.
“Oh, nothing is perfect in this world,” was the laughing answer.
The sun, suddenly dipping down, struck clearly on the faces of the couple. Tom saw them, and his lips formed a name.
“Shambler! That’s whom she meant when she said she could not go with me. Shambler!”
The couple passed on, and Tom stood there looking at them, his hands clenched so that the nails deeply indented his palms.
“Shambler!” he murmured. “Shambler!”
CHAPTER XIV
SHAMBLER’S VISITOR
Tom Parsons’s chums had the common sense—or shall we say grace—not to mention his non-appearance at the May walk. As they came into the room at the close of the day that had meant so much to them, and which had been fraught with incidents that would be long remembered, Sid, Phil and Frank acted just as though, all along, they had not expected Tom to go, or as if he would be on hand to meet them on their return. For he was back ahead of them. He had fairly rushed for a car after seeing Madge with Shambler.
“Did you finish your book?” asked Frank, as he slumped down into an easy chair.
“No,” replied Tom quietly. “I went for a walk.”
“It was a fine day,” remarked Sid, taking the companion chair to the one Frank had selected, and with such violence did he fling himself into it that the joints creaked and groaned in protest. “I’m tired,” added Sid, in explanation.
“No reason for killing the chair though,” objected Phil. “That’s the old original, too, not the one we got from Rosencranz. Treat it gently.”
Tom was stretched out on the sofa, his arms up over his head, staring at the ceiling. He moved his feet to make room for Phil, who settled down beside his chum.
For a space there was silence in the room, a deep silence, for no one knew just what to say to relieve the somewhat embarrassing situation. The three did not just know what to make of Tom, though they had heard, just before coming home, that Madge Tyler was with Shambler, and that explained much.
“Great Scott! The clock!” suddenly exclaimed Sid, as the silence, which was beginning to make itself felt, became so oppressive that they were all aware that the clock had stopped. “Have you been doing anything to it, Tom?”
“Who? Me? No, it was going when I went out. Maybe it needs winding.”
“That’s it,” declared Sid with an air of relief as, by testing the thumb screw that operated the main spring, he found the time piece had indeed run down. Soon its cheerful, if somewhat monotonous ticking, filled the room.
“Well, now for some boning,” remarked Phil, with half a sigh, as he took off his stiff collar, and made himself comfortable. “I understand the Spring exams are going to be pretty stiff,” he added.
“Well, they ought to be,” remarked Frank. “We’re getting up in the world. We’re not in the kindergarten class any more. But it will soon be Summer, and then for a long rest. I’m going out on a ranch, I think.”
“Me for the mountains,” declared Sid.
“And a lake and a motor-boat for me,” chimed in Phil. “How about you, Tom?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t made any plans. It depends on how dad’s lawsuit comes out. I may be a waiter in a hotel where some of you fellows are sporting.”
“If you are, I’ll sit at your table and give you big enough tips so you can come back to Randall in the Fall,” spoke Sid with a laugh, in which the others joined. And then, with minds that probably dwelt more on the happenings of the day than on their books, the three fell to studying. But Tom remained stretched out on the sofa, with his arms up over his head, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Everybody out for practice to-day!” ordered Holly Cross the following afternoon, as a crowd of lads poured forth from Randall at the close of the last lecture of the day. “Shot-putters, weight throwers, runners, jumpers, hurdlers—everybody on the job!”
“What’s the rush?” asked Phil. “Anything new?”
“Well, yes, in a way. The committee from the four colleges met last night, and we’ve practically decided to hold the meet. All the objectionable points were done away with, and it only remains to decide on the events and the date.”
“That’s the stuff!” cried the Big Californian.
“Wow! Something doing all right!” yelled Shambler. “I’m going to get into my running togs.”
“You’d think the whole college depended on him,” remarked Sid, with a half sneer, as the new student hastened toward the gymnasium.
“Well, we’re counting on him to win the mile run for us,” said Holly. “He’s the best we’ve struck yet, even if he is loaded to the muzzle with conceit. Come on, now, you fellows, get busy.”
“Did those new hurdles come?” asked Frank Simpson, who was much interested in the proposed one hundred and twenty yard hurdle race.
“Yes, I’ll have them out on the path pretty soon,” replied Holly. “They’re fine, and it only takes a few seconds to change from one height to another. See how you like ’em.”
Soon the athletic field at Randall presented a busy scene. Lads in all sorts of undress uniform, from running trunks to jerseys and sweaters, were at practice.