On the following afternoon Vench, Don and Jim walked down to town together. Terry was wrestling in the gym with Chipps, and the three boys, having nothing better to do, and wishing to buy a few things, gained the necessary permission and set out. After making their purchases Don led the way to a local drugstore.
“Pretty cold for ice cream,” he grinned. “You boys want a coke instead?”
“I can always eat ice cream,” smiled Vench, his white teeth flashing out in his dark face.
“Me too,” nodded Jim, and they went into the store.
They sat down and Don gave their order to the man in charge. Then the boys looked around. A few men lounged at the counter; the only other customers were a pair who sat off in a corner. Don and Jim looked at them fleetingly, but Vench uttered a smothered cry and a look of pleasure passed over his face.
“Why, I know one of those fellows,” he exclaimed. “You see the short man, with the little black mustache? That is Paul Morro, a painter whom I met in Paris. We went to the same school of art, and many times I went to see his quaint attic where he did his painting. I wonder what he is doing here?”
The two at the far table had been engrossed in conversation and had not seen the boys come in, nor had they looked up. One of them was stout and short and the other as Vench had described him. The friends ate their ice cream, and when Vench had finished he pushed back his chair.
“I think I’ll just step over and say hello to Morro,” he said. “He’ll be tickled to death to see me, I know. If I get the chance I’ll bring him over and introduce him to you. Pardon me, boys, for a minute.”
“Surely,” replied Jim and Don.
Mr. Vench arose from his chair and made his way to the table occupied by the two Frenchmen. They did not look up as he approached and he leaned down and touched the one named Morro on the shoulder, smiling in anticipation. Paul Morro looked up with a quick start into Vench’s face.