Tom felt a sudden suspicion. Was she asking because she wanted to know whether Langridge would be in the party of merrymakers?
“No, I think they’re going in a big stage.”
“I thought maybe you might want to be with the nine,” she went on, and Tom saw that he had misunderstood. “You might get a chance to pitch,” and she looked at him.
“No such luck,” replied Tom, trying to speak cheerfully, but finding it hard work. “Well, I’ll say good-night, or, rather, good-morning. When I write home I must tell my folks about meeting you here.”
“Yes, do. I’ve already written to mine, telling what a fine time I’m having.”
Tom was rather thoughtful on his way home. He stumbled into his dark room, nearly falling over something.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sid, who was in bed.
“That’s what I want to know,” replied Tom, striking a match. “Why don’t you keep your patent leathers out of the middle of the floor?” he demanded.
“I did, Tommy, me lad, as Bricktop Molloy would say, but I had to throw them out there later.”
“How’s that?”