The girl was truthful in one respect; she did send a telegram. However, it was not addressed to her mother, but to Harold Mason, and it contained only the word “NOW,” and was signed, “R. H.”
“And now,” she chuckled, as she traced her way back to the inn—“and now the real excitement begins!”
CHAPTER X
THE FORD TO THE RESCUE
Ever since his return from Princeton in June, Harold Mason had spent part of each day with his fair neighbor, Ruth Henry. More or less of a stranger in town, and having been away at college for four months, he had not formed any deep friendships with the young men of his own age. It was true that Jack Wilkinson had been fairly chummy with him, including him often among his crowd, in which Harold had always had a good time; but he had singled out no individual for his especial friend. Perhaps Ruth Henry was largely the cause of this.
For the young people had spent as much time together as Mrs. Henry would permit, and as Ruth would spare away from Jack Wilkinson, with whom the old boy and girl friendship still persisted, in spite of the many disturbances between the former and Jack’s sister, Marjorie.
Ruth and Harold had played tennis together almost every day, had sometimes gone for walks, and had taken a “spin” almost every evening after supper. The boy was deeply infatuated with his spirited young companion; now that she was away, he missed her most frightfully. He sometimes thought of looking for a summer job, but the hope that Ruth might telegraph to summon him to her aid prevented him. He wanted to be free to go the instant he received word. It was his dream day and night that she would want him, that he would be able to carry out the plan they had secretly plotted and that Ruth would win the meet at Silvertown. Perhaps she would be so overjoyed with his cleverness that she would obtain permission to invite him to Silvertown over the week end! He would take his Ford Sedan, and it would be the only car among the crowd; he would be the most popular of young men, and Ruth, seeing how the others admired him, would be proud to claim him as her particular friend!
It was, therefore, with a thrill of joy that he received the telegram and opened it to read the brief message. His eyes lit up instantly; then, glancing at his father who was awaiting the news, he stuffed the yellow paper into his pocket.
“A peach of an invitation from Miles Carter!” he exclaimed. “A stag house-party! By Jupiter, I’m glad I’m not working—and have to miss it!”
The explanation was, of course, made up on the spot; even the name was fictitious. Harold had just finished reading a book with such a character, and it was the first name that popped into his head.