"Poor Charlie," repeated the old man. "May his soul rest in peace." With a sigh he put on his hat and started slowly down the path. "Poor Charlie, poor old Charlie," he was still saying, when he found himself on the edge of a company of very indignant and excited young women.
"This must be the Class of 19—Wellington," he was thinking as he turned to go the other way, when Margaret Wakefield in the very center of the crowd thundered out:
"It's an outrage! A miserable, cowardly trick!"
Some of the girls were actually crying; others looked grave, while still others conferred together in low indignant tones.
"I beg pardon, young ladies, has anything serious happened?" asked the old gentleman, lifting his hat politely.
There was a complete silence at this unexpected interruption, and then Margaret, ever the spokesman of her class, replied in a suspiciously tearful tone of voice:
"We've been robbed, sir. Somebody has stolen our luncheon."
"Dear, dear!" murmured the old gentleman, looking from one face to another with real sympathy, "dear, dear! but that was an unkind trick—and quite a large meal, too, I imagine," he added, noting the size of the company.
"Three hampers full," cried one girl.
"And we had worked so hard over it," cried another.