“She started out early, and wouldn’t say where she was going. I thought she acted very strangely.”
“Say, she and Tom are up to some joke!” declared Phil. “I thought there was something queer about Tom.”
“Then we’ll see ’em later,” suggested Sid. “Come on, it’s too nice to stand still.”
They strolled on toward the clump of woods where the lunch was to be eaten—happy lads and gay lassies with Springtime in their hearts.
And, back in the room of the four chums, sat a solitary figure—a figure on the old rickety sofa—a figure that stared moodily down at the faded rug—a figure that did not stir as the minutes were ticked off on the fussy little alarm clock.
Out on the campus sounded the calls of a crowd of lads at ball practice. Farther off could be heard the cries of those who were leaping, running or throwing weights in anticipation of the track games. But the figure in the room gave no heed to this.
Not moving, Tom continued to stare at nothing, and the bitterness of his spirit grew on him.
“I can’t understand—I can’t understand,” he murmured, over and over again.