“Awfully sorry, Miss Ronald,” gasped Cunningham, “’spect I kept you waitin’ an awful time. That—that ‘dresser’ of mine put half my things with another fellow’s and I had a time getting them straight.”
Miss Ronald said it did not matter and that the chaperon had gone on with the rest, and that they were to catch up.
“You know we must get that 5.50 train back to the College,” she explained. So they strolled up Harvard Square, and Miss Ronald assured Cunningham that his solo in the second act was the gem of the operetta, and Cunningham was saying impressively that he was glad she liked it, when it occurred to both of them that the chaperon and the rest of the party had somehow disappeared.
“Did they intend getting the train in Boston or going over to Allston for it?” asked Cunningham.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Miss Ronald, helplessly. “How stupid of me—I never thought to ask!”
Cunningham said it would be rather easier, he thought, to get over to Allston, and that they had probably gone that way. So they boarded a car and got to Allston at ten minutes of six—“excellent time,” as Cunningham remarked walking inside the station to buy the tickets. He was gone so long that Miss Ronald started in after him, fearing every minute to hear the train come thundering up. When she saw him she knew by his face that something was the matter.
“The ticket-man has just told me this confounded train doesn’t stop at Allston,” he said, coming quickly toward her. “It’s an outrage—the company oughtn’t to run its trains so irregularly. It’s a beastly shame! How’s a person going to remember where a train stops and where it doesn’t?” he added excitedly, and a trifle vaguely.
Miss Ronald was very much disturbed and a little indignant. Cunningham felt very sorry for the girl and inclined to blame himself for the mistake, but Miss Ronald assured him that it was not his fault, and that what he had to do now was to think how best they could get back to the College. It was while they were standing on the platform “thinking,” that the 5.50 from Boston rushed by and they caught sight of the anxious face of the chaperon at the window.
“Nice people to go off and leave me this way,” soliloquized Miss Ronald, indignantly. Cunningham walked inside to scrutinize the time-table. When he came out his face wore so hopeful an expression that Miss Ronald brightened visibly. “I have a scheme,” he declared. “There’s a train into Boston that comes along in fifteen minutes and that will get us in there at 6.25—too late to get the 6.22 out; but we can go to the Thorndyke and have a little dinner, and catch the 7.30 which will get you to ‘the College’ at 8.17. You see it would take us at least two hours to drive over, so that by my plan we shall have our dinner and get back as soon as if we started now with a trap. And if you will wait here a minute, I’ll telegraph your chaperon that we will be out on the 7.30, so she won’t be uneasy about you.”
He was so evidently pleased and relieved with his arrangement that Miss Ronald hadn’t the heart to offer any objections. They got up to the Thorndyke and secured a delightful table by an open window, and by the time they had ordered a rather elaborate dinner, Miss Ronald’s righteous indignation at her abandonment by the chaperon had stifled any feelings of remorse at her consent to Cunningham’s “scheme.” So they ate in peace and talked about the operetta and their friends, and she was enjoying it all immensely, and had quite forgotten her anxiety to get back to College and her keen doubts about the propriety of the adventure, when her eyes happened to fall upon a bronze clock on the mantel at the other end of the room, and she gave a little cry of dismay. Cunningham followed the direction of her gaze and said “by Jove” under his breath in a very forcible sort of way. He pulled out his watch and found it tallied uncompromisingly with the clock. He beckoned sharply to the waiter.