“I’m awfully sorry, Watson, but there ain’t any. You see, I was just going to make some when that fellow came in and——”
“Asked for it, I’ll bet a doughnut!” exclaimed Watson. “Say, you, Mr. Smart Aleck”—Watson’s jaw dropped. “Where is he?” he demanded.
“The new fellow?” replied one of the younger boys. “Oh, he just went out!”
CHAPTER II
RODNEY MEETS THE TWINS
Rodney, smiling at his thoughts, was a block away. While he was by no means running, he was at the same time proceeding decidedly faster than before. The vicinity of Doolittle’s Pharmacy was not, he told himself, a healthy locality for him just then. In fact, he was somewhat relieved when the main street, as though despairing of being able to climb any further in a straight line, broke in two like a letter Y. Once around the turn to the left he would be no longer in sight from the drug store. His instructions from the expressman had been to take the left-hand road where River Street branched. What he was to do after that he no longer recalled. Consequently when he came to a cross street that appeared to curve back toward the other branch of the Y he let it severely alone. But a few rods further on he doubted his wisdom. The stores had stopped two blocks below—he was still climbing upward, although at a more comfortable grade—and residences had taken their place. About him now were large yards, with many trees and beds of flowers; dahlias and asters and flaming scarlet sage and golden-yellow marigolds; with quiet, peaceful old-fashioned white houses with green window shutters tucked well away from the street. Ahead of him the road seemed bent on losing itself in open country, and the dwelling houses were growing scarcer. The Westcott house, whither his baggage had gone and where he himself was leisurely bound, was opposite the Academy campus; the letter from Mrs. Westcott had distinctly so stated; and as yet there was nothing even dimly resembling a campus in sight. He paused under the shade of a big elm, whose far-reaching branches had already begun to carpet the street with their rusty-yellow leaves, and looked about him.
Across the road a narrow side street, scarcely wider than a lane, according to Rodney’s notions, ran briskly downhill until it passed from sight. Rodney at once eliminated that thoroughfare from his calculations. Rather than strike downward and have to climb that hill again he would stay just where he was and starve to death. Not, however, that there was any immediate danger of that contingency, for he had managed to eat a particularly hearty meal some three hours since in the big dining saloon of the steamer. But three hours is three hours, and any normal, healthy boy can look with favor on food after a fast of that duration. So he produced a piece of sweet chocolate from a pocket, removed the tin-foil with some difficulty, since the warmth of the day had softened the delicacy to a condition of mushiness, and looked about him for a place to rest and refresh himself. A few feet farther along a big granite horseblock stood at the edge of the sidewalk—with a narrow gate in the fence behind, but he didn’t notice that—and so he sat himself comfortably down on it and proceeded to nibble. It was perceptibly cooler up here on the hill, for he was almost at the summit of the ridge that paralleled the river for many miles, and a fresh breeze was blowing along the shady street. It was still only—he looked at his watch—only ten minutes after three and he had nearly two hours of freedom yet, if he wanted it. He sighed contentedly.
While he sits there let us have a look at him. Fairly tall for his fifteen years—fifteen and a half, to be strictly accurate—splendidly healthy and capable in appearance, Rodney Merrill was on the whole distinctly attractive. Perhaps you would not have called him a handsome boy. If not Rodney would have had no quarrel with you since, in a boy’s language, handsome implies some quality of effeminacy most undesirable. He had brown hair, brown eyes—very nice brown eyes they were, too—a fairly large mouth and a full share of freckles in a face that was well-tanned, clear-cut and wholesome. And there was a self-reliant air about him that might have belonged to a much older lad. He was neatly if not strikingly dressed. A plain gray suit of flannel, a straw hat, brown shoes and black stockings, and a rather effective negligee shirt of alternating rose and green stripes on a gray ground made up his attire. Perhaps I ought to make mention of the black and white scarf from which just at present he was flecking a crumb of sticky chocolate.
Once as he sat there he thought he heard a rustling in the hedge behind him or the branches above, and looked around. But nothing was in sight. A locomotive whistled somewhere below as it passed. The trees, however, cut off his view of the railroad. In fact, from where he sat not even the river could be glimpsed, and he thought vaguely that he would like it better later on when the leaves were off and a fellow could see something. He was accustomed to wide views at home and the trees and hedges and shrubs were beginning to pall on him. He felt so sort of shut in. He finished the last of the chocolate and sighed again, this time with repletion. Then he rolled the tin-foil into a small and glittering ball, lifted his hand to toss it away——