And Digby had studied it while the car shot through the sunshiny city and the uproarious crowds. He lifted his head at last, and turned and searched till he found a man two seats behind, the Secretary of War.
“Pass this to Loomis, please,” he commanded the men between, and spoke across: “Tom, you’d better get that thing for the government. It’s Ellsworth’s. It’s a go. Look at it.”
And Loomis had looked, and laughed. “I don’t understand a word of it,” he had thrown back, “but if you say it’s a go, that settles it. Where’s Ellsworth?”
The question repeated itself to Pendleton marching down Yale Field. “Where’s Ellsworth?” he wondered over and over. A vague uneasiness disquieted him through the bright turbulent afternoon, but it was not till he found himself in the midst of the mad dance all over the color-starred field, celebrating Yale’s triumph, that it came to him, with that unreasonable certainty which boys call a “hunch,” what had happened. Something had upset the man, and he had not come.
“Great Scott!” thought Pendleton; “it wouldn’t surprise me if he had taken a train.”
With that he knew that he must find him. It was hard to miss being with “the fellows” when they marched down the street together behind the class banner to make their call on the president; he cared very much that his voice should not be part of the ringing shout which would send up the name they all delighted to honor in the Yale cheer for the president of Yale. But somebody had got to see to Johnny Ellsworth.
He brushed an automobile as he left the grounds and, looking up, saw friends. “For the love of Heaven give me a lift,” he begged. “And drive fast. Important business. I’ve got to get to town.”
So that the sea of people had hardly begun to trickle back into the city when he was landed in front of headquarters.
“Mr. Ellsworth here?” he demanded of the servant who met him.
“Just gone, sir.”