“Pshaw, I forgot a hat!” he muttered. “Wouldn’t my spick and span Panama look ridiculous with this rig!”
He sat down on the edge of the bed to think. At last he decided upon his own grey felt, which he thought he could twist so out of shape as to make it look appropriate.
Next he packed these things, and locking all his dress and sport clothing in the wooden chest in the effort to deceive his mother into thinking he had taken them, he began to count his money. Fortunately, Harold Mason had his own bank account; for he could not guess just how much money he might need, and it would have been embarrassing indeed to have to ask his father for some, and have to make up other fictitious explanations.
He made all his preparations, for he intended to start early Thursday morning. And by six o’clock he was on his way, his disguise in the suitcase in the back of the machine, and his copy of the map in his pocket. The road was good, and he knew the country well; there was no cause for delay. The distance covered by the canoes, slowly following the winding course of the stream, was made with great rapidity in the car. By noon he had reached the town from which Ruth had sent the telegram.
Although Harold’s mother had packed him some sandwiches, the boy was almost starved, and he made immediately for the only hotel in the town—the little Green Tree Inn.
He had hardly entered the door, when a servant approached him.
“Mr. Harold Mason?” he inquired.
Harold stopped, amazed. How could anyone here know his name?
“Yes,” he replied.
“One of the young ladies left a letter here for you,” the boy said, producing an envelope from his pocket.