Frank Armstrong at College

by Matthew M. Colton

"Gleason, this doesn't look like the road we came on," said Frank, in alarm.

"Well, it's a good road, isn't it?"

"But no road is good unless it leads to Brighton. Remember your promise. That train leaves at ten-thirty and it is five minutes of ten now. And, moreover, we're lost."

"Lost, your eye! How can we be lost when I'm at the helm?" But, nevertheless, the puzzled look on the Codfish's face continued to grow deeper as the minutes passed away and nothing was seen of the chauffeur. "I say," he called to a passing farmer, "can you tell me if this is the road to Brighton?"

"Naw. Second turn to the right and then keep straight ahead."

"How far from here?"

"'Bout five mile."

"The country is saved. Now see the dust fly. Twenty minutes to do five miles. Oh, it's a cinch. That chauffeur can walk home. I'll settle."

Fifteen minutes later the Codfish drew up at the outskirts of a small village. "Is this the way to Brighton?" he inquired of a passer-by.