“Yes. We’ll all start about eight. You’re going, Latham?”
“Yes, but I’ll start a little ahead. I can’t get along quite as fast as you fellows.”
“Oh, we’re in no great rush. We’ll all go together. We’d better go by the road, though; I guess you’d find it pretty hard through the woods. Let’s telephone those messages to the telegraph office now, Gil, before we forget it.”
Half an hour later they were off, Gil and Poke ahead and Jim and Jeffrey behind, all suiting their pace to Jeffrey’s. He managed to swing himself along about as fast as an ordinary walk, and that was fast enough for any of them this evening, for all had supped well and it was still pretty warm, although the sun had been down for a good half-hour and there was a little breeze from the west. It was not quite dark as they followed the winding road, but when, presently, the school buildings came into sight beyond the trees lights were agleam in most of the rooms.
“Seems funny not to be living up there,” reflected Poke. “I wonder who’ll get our room.”
“Homesick already?” laughed Gil. “Much I care who gets it. I believe we’re going to have a dandy time at—what’s its name?”
“Sunnywood Cottage,” replied Poke as they turned onto the drive that led past the rear of Academy Hall to the Principal’s residence. “Say, I like Mrs. Hazard, don’t you?”
“You bet! She’s a lady.”
“Yes, she’s—she’s sort of like a fellow’s own mother, isn’t she? And she certainly has great preserves!”
The house was brilliantly lighted and already fellows were arriving. Gil and Poke waited at the steps for the others to come up. Then, settling their collars and furtively slicking down their hair, they followed the stream, deposited their caps in the hall and entered the big library, already half full of guests. Mr. Gordon, the Principal, or J. G. as the boys called him, was receiving with Mrs. Gordon, and toward them the Sunnywood contingent made their way, Gil and Poke, however, stopping at least a dozen times to greet friends. On several occasions Jim and Jeffrey were introduced, but only one name stuck in Jim’s memory afterwards, that of a big, good-looking, broad-shouldered fellow of nineteen, who squeezed Jim’s hand like a vise and of whom Gil whispered a moment later as they passed on: “That’s Duncan Sargent, football captain; one of the best!” Then Jim was shaking hands with Mr. Gordon and Mrs. Gordon and the Principal was saying: