When Ira awoke the next morning an expression of Mart Johnston’s came to him. “You’ve got a good day for it!” It certainly was a good day, for the early morning sky was cloudless and swept by a crisp breeze that held enough tingle as it came through the window to make him hurry a bit with his dressing. He managed to get through his ablutions and put his clothes on without disturbing Nead, and at twenty minutes past six he closed the door quietly behind him and went cautiously down the dim stairways. Main Street was for the most part still asleep, although a few yawning persons were opening stores for the day’s trade. He found himself whistling a tune as he turned into Linden Street and realised that it was rather an incongruous thing to do under the circumstances. He ought, he told himself, to plan his battle and keep his mind on feints and leads. But the morning was too fine for that and he didn’t feel in the least sanguinary. He would much have preferred a long walk into the country.
There was no sign of Goodloe when he reached the West Gate, and he had begun to hope that that youth had overslept when he caught sight of him running down the steps of Williams Hall. Goodloe waved a greeting as he hurried up, still buttoning his waistcoat.
“Sorry if I’m late,” he said as he joined Ira. “I came mighty near missing it. Fred wouldn’t let me set the alarm clock and I’m not much good at waking up myself. Say, it’s a peach of a morning, isn’t it? If we cut through here it’s nearer, Rowland.”
He led the way down a sort of lane beside an old white house on Apple Street and they squeezed themselves between the bars of a gate.
“I suppose you went to Jud’s reception last night?” asked Goodloe. “I went last year. He asked a lot of us over to give the glad hand to the new boys, but Halden—he was baseball captain last year—and a lot more of us made such inroads on the refreshments that we didn’t get asked this time. I suppose Mrs. Jud asked you to tea?”
“Yes, she did. On Friday, I think it was. I’m not sure whether I said I’d come or not.”
“It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t expect you. No one ever goes. Not more than once, anyhow. She makes you do things: sing or recite or do card tricks. She means well; in fact she’s a nice little person, Mrs. Jud; but it’s a nuisance. Ned Mailman went the first time he was asked and recited Casey at the Bat with the aid of an umbrella out of the stand in the hall, and knocked about sixty-eleven dollars worth of bric-a-brac off the mantel! Here we are!”
They had crossed a field during Goodloe’s chatter and now were making their way past the old workings of a brick-yard, skirting a clay pit that was half full of water and a tumble-down shed littered with broken bricks. Further on was a small building in a fair state of repair, save for the windows which had been practically denuded of glass, and to the back of this Goodloe cheerfully led the way.
“Out of sight of the world,” he announced. “There have been more scraps pulled off here than you can shake a stick at. It used to be a brick-yard, but now it’s a scrap yard.” Goodloe removed his coat and waistcoat and hung them carefully from a nail against the side of the shed. “There’s a nail for you,” he said, pointing. “We don’t get checks, but they’ll be safe.” He put his hat over his garments and drew his belt in another hole.