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!”