Swinging the racket appreciatively as he entered the campus, Jonesie almost collided with a tall, broad-shouldered Upper Classman.
“Hi, kid, look where you’re going,” ejaculated the latter good-naturedly. Jonesie stepped out of the way into a puddle.
“Beg pardon, Bingham,” he said humbly.
III
All that happened on Friday. Saturday was a wonderful sunny day, and Jonesie, who had no recitation after half past ten in the morning, was very, very busy. There was nine holes of golf with “Pinky” Trainor before dinner, a visit to the village with Pinky in the afternoon and a lovely rough-house evening of it in Steve Cook’s room. Steve lived at Mrs. Sharp’s in Walnut Place, and as Walnut Place was a good half mile from the nearest dormitory and Mrs. Sharp good-naturedly lenient it was, in Pinky’s words, some party! Jonesie, Pinky and two other campus dwellers left at a quarter past ten by way of a window and a shed roof, skulking back to school by dark and devious ways. Consequently it was not until Sunday morning, always a sober period to Jonesie, that recollection of Wigman returned to him. The Smith Special reposed on the mantel and ever and anon as Jonesie wandered about the study donning one garment after another, his glance fell upon it troubledly. Naturally Sparrow had been curious about the tennis racket and Jonesie’s easy statement that he had “bought it off a fellow” only aroused Sparrow’s incredulity.
“Bought it! Yes, you did! Bet you stole it!” jeered Sparrow. Which unjust charge so outraged Jonesie that he refused further enlightenment.
All during church, or more especially during the sermon—for Jonesie solved some of his most momentous problems while the preacher’s drone filled the quiet church—he considered Wigman. Something would have to be done, but he couldn’t see what. He sincerely wished he had never encountered Wigman. The whole thing was a nuisance! Of course he had hedged enough so that if Wigman was dropped from the football squad to-morrow Wigman couldn’t hold him to blame. Still, there was that racket. Jonesie loved that racket and didn’t want to give it up, which, he supposed, he’d have—well, ought—to do in case Wigman suffered in the morrow’s cut. Jonesie frowned and scowled and cudgeled his brain, but discovered no solution. During the rest of the day—especially what time Jonesie sat and suffered in the composition of his weekly home letter—the Smith Special looked down upon him accusingly, reproachfully, until finally the boy arose and wrathfully cast it into the closet.
By Monday morning he had forgotten the Wigman problem. Nor did it occur to him again until, returning at dusk from an afternoon on the river in a canoe with Pinky, Sparrow growlingly indicated a note on the table. Jonesie’s first glance was at the signature, and when he read Wigman his heart sank uncomfortably. Then, taking a long breath, he moved his gaze to the top of the sheet and read:
Friend Jones: