“It isn’t Tom,” finished Phil, after a moment of scrutiny. “Who is it! He’s got his back turned this way.”
“Looks like Roger Barnes,” remarked Sid.
“No, I saw Roger with Clare Hopkins,” remarked Mabel, naming two of the students at the co-educational institution. “He tried to get up a ball game for to-day, but none of the other boys would agree to play. It isn’t Roger.”
“It can’t be Lem Sellig,” ventured Helen.
“Oh, come on, let’s find a good place to eat lunch,” proposed Ruth, with a laudable desire to change the embarrassing subject. “Maybe Tom will come along later. We must save him some.”
“Not too much,” objected Phil. “We’re hungry, and he could just as well have been here on time as not.”
“Phil, haven’t you any sense?” his sister managed to whisper to him. “Can’t you see that something has happened?”
“What?” asked Phil, innocently enough. Phil never was strong on intrigue.
“Oh! Stupid, I’ll tell you later!” whispered Ruth. “Don’t say anything more now.”
“That’s right,” admitted Phil good-naturedly. “Every time I open my mouth I put my foot in it, as the poet says.”