“Yes, get a move on, we don’t want to be late.”
“Let’s see the new tie you bought.”
Thus did the tall pitcher’s chums address him as they circled about the all too small room when it came to the pinch of all four dressing at once, and that in their best outfits, which indicated an occasion of more than usual importance.
But Tom was not dressing. In his most comfortable, which is to say his oldest garments, he lounged on the rickety old sofa, with a book in his hand, and a novel at that.
But he was not reading, a fact which a close observer could have at once detected, only there were no close observers in evidence that pleasant afternoon—the afternoon of the May walk of Fairview.
Tom glanced from time to time at the printed page but he saw nothing of the words. Instead, there came between him and the types, the vision of a girl’s face—an imperious face now, with eyes that looked coldly at him.
“Say, you’ll be late!” warned Phil, “and we’re not going to wait for you. You’ll have to save your own bacon.”
“Oh—all right,” grumbled Tom, in tones he meant to be deceiving. “No use of any more trying to dress in this bandbox. I can throw my things on in a jiffy when you fellows get out of the way.”
“Listen to him,” taunted Sid.
“I’ll bet he’s got a whole new outfit,” declared Frank, “and he daren’t show ’em. Come on—be a sport!”