“She must be crazy!” declared Jack, as she finished her story. “You’d better not have anything to do with her. Say, what does she look like?” as a sudden idea occurred to him.
Patricia described her as well as she could.
“The very same!” ejaculated the boy, when Patricia paused.
“The same—what do you mean?” inquired the girl, looking at him with a puzzled expression.
“I was walking along Craig Street, right back of the campus, you know, one day about two weeks ago, when I noticed a little woman ahead of me drop a small bag. Apparently, she didn’t notice her loss; for she kept right on. I picked up the pocketbook, hurried on, and gave it to her. She looked at me sharply with the most piercing brown eyes I have ever seen—”
“That’s she!” interrupted Patricia. “Those eyes fasten themselves on you just like tiny crabs.”
“I presented the bag and told her where I found it. She said curtly: ‘So you’re really honest. I didn’t think anybody was, any more.’ It made me mad, so I merely said: ‘That is one of the things upon which I pride myself,’ bowed and hurried on. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I thought I heard her laugh. Must be cuckoo.”
“She’s certainly queer, to say the least,” agreed Patricia. “I think I’d better go in, now. Thanks for the movie; I enjoyed it.”
“Wait a minute,” urged the boy, laying a hand on her arm. “You’re going to see the Greystone game; aren’t you?”
“Yes; Frances and I are going to drive down together.”