“All right. That suits me.”
“You’re sure you weren’t going to do something else?” asked Dan. “We aren’t likely to get back much before supper, you know.”
“I wasn’t going to do a thing, Vinton. If I had been I’d give it up, because on a dandy day like this there’s nothing finer than a good tramp in the country. I’ll get into a pair of easier shoes, though, I guess.” Ned observed his patent leather Oxfords disapprovingly. “And I’ll meet you outside Clarke at eleven-ten sharp.”
And so at a quarter-past eleven Dan and Ned took the road together. Each had togged himself in an old suit of knickerbockers and had put on a pair of good stout, easy shoes. The morning was just what one might expect in early November after a day of rain. There was a bright blue sky overhead, a wealth of golden sunshine and a little breeze from the southwest that held a tang of the sparkling Sound. After they had crossed the bridge over the river and taken the inland road that led to Broadwood, they had the broad marsh on their right. The marsh this morning was a wonderful far-stretching expanse of faded green and russet and gold and red, with, here and there, a brilliant blue ribbon of water winding across. On their left as they trudged over the road made firm by the rain, was a hillside of maples and beeches. The storm had almost stripped the former of their scarlet livery, but the beeches were still brightly yellow, while the ground was thickly carpeted with the fallen maple leaves.
For the first mile or so Ned did most of the talking, rattling along unceasingly of every subject under the sun, drawing Dan’s attention to a bit of landscape or a brilliant burst of color between whiles. Infrequently a carriage or motor passed them, but for the most of the way they had the curving road to themselves. At the Old Cider Mill, Dan’s memory turned to the time the spring before when a number of them had gone over to Broadwood late at night and perpetrated an April fool joke on the rival school. He mentioned it to Ned, and Ned said:
“Tell me about that lark. I never got the rights of it. You needn’t mention names, you know.”
So Dan recounted the adventure and told how he had tried to keep Gerald in ignorance of the project for fear the boy would insist on going. “I didn’t want him to, you see, because I felt sort of responsible to his father.” And how, when they had reached the mill, they had paused to eat some sandwiches they had brought along, and had looked up the road in the moonlight and seen someone coming. “We went inside to wait for him to go by. But he didn’t pass and after a while we peeked out and there he was sitting over there eating up the sandwiches. And when we got out it was Gerald himself! He had found out about it and played ’possum until we had started and then followed us.”
“And didn’t the gardener over at Broadwood hear you and chase you off the place?”
“He did. And he saw Gerald and recognized him and came over and pointed him out to Collins. We had a merry chase through the shrubbery and over the wall. The gardener chap got mixed up with my foot once when he was chasing Gerald and took a header. I fancy it didn’t improve his temper any.”
“I didn’t know anything about it until I got home,” said Ned. “Then my dad passed the morning paper over to me and pointed out the story they had about it. Of course he suspected me of having a hand, but I proved a clean bill of health. It’s funny, Vinton, they never tried to get back at us for that trick.”