“Yes, come in you musty old deserter, and give an account of yourself. You’ve been away so long that you must have forgotten the counter-sign.”
“It was a girl, fellows—I can smell the perfumery!”
Thus Sid, Phil and Frank greeted the advent of our hero into the common room, soon after he had left Boswell. Tom’s brain had been so busy with so many thoughts, after the sight of that torn handkerchief, that he had eaten scarcely any supper, though his appetite just before that had been of the best.
“Shove over; can’t you?” was all Tom said to Phil, who was stretched out on the old sofa.
“Sure I can. What’s the matter? Got a grouch!”
“No, but I’m dead tired.”
“Be careful how you flop,” warned Sid, as he watched with anxiety Tom’s preparations to sit down. “That sofa doesn’t gain strength with age—it isn’t like cheese in that respect.”
“Where were you?” asked Phil, as Tom managed to find a resting place without bringing forth from the sofa more than a protesting groan, and a series of squeaks.
“Ruth and I were out for a row,” said Tom shortly, knowing that the truth would out sooner or later, and having nothing to conceal.