“I always said they didn’t have sense enough to get out of the way,” Marston remarked in a vexed tone.
Then he looked curiously at his friend.
“What made you beat it?” he asked. “Why didn’t you stop and pick her up? It wasn’t your fault—no one could have blamed you, if you only hadn’t run away.”
“I couldn’t, Fred—I simply couldn’t,” Stovebridge confessed, without lifting his eyes. “My one idea was to get away before any one saw me. You know the beastly things they do to a fellow sometimes. Why, I might have been jugged for a year or more.”
“Yes, I know,” agreed the other. “Still——”
He stopped abruptly and looked out over the golf course in a meditative way.
“You managed pretty well, though,” he said presently as he turned back to Stovebridge. “No one saw you on your way here, I suppose?”
The other shook his head.
“No; if it wasn’t for that beastly cap I should feel quite safe. But Merriwell suspects me on that account.”