Clif was glad that the next day was Sunday.
He could lie abed a half-hour later, which was something to rejoice over, and, save for church at eleven o’clock, no duties claimed him until study hour at eight. He awoke before the rising bell and had a full ten minutes in which to stretch his lame muscles and accustom himself to the thought of getting up. The muscles were not as sore as he had expected they would be, and by the time he was ready for breakfast he felt quite fit. As though having atoned overnight for his talkativeness, Walter spoke but twice during dressing, and then only when spoken to.
In the afternoon Clif and Tom went to walk. They set out to find the golf links since, although the students were not allowed to play the game on Sunday, there were certain club members whose views were less strict than Doctor Wyndham’s, and Tom had a mind to select a promising twosome and follow it around, his idea of spending a Sunday afternoon pleasantly being to derive entertainment from others at as slight a cost of physical or mental exertion to himself as possible. But his plan went agley since a full half-hour’s search failed to discover the links. Billy Desmond had said it was a good mile from the school, and so far he had proved truthful, but the rest of his information had been purposely misleading. Perhaps Billy’s idea of spending a pleasant Sunday afternoon was to sit comfortably in Number 34, surrounded by pages of the morning paper, and mentally picture Tom and Clif seeking a golf course where there never had been one!
They located it finally, however. Having abandoned search for it, they climbed Baldhead Mountain, which deserved only the first half of its title and presented few difficulties, and from the bare granite ledge on the summit saw figures moving about over a green expanse some two miles distant. The figures were recognizable as men playing golf. Tom said “Huh!” disgustedly and resolutely turned his gaze away.
Well, there were more things than golf courses to be seen. On a clear day, such as this was, one could look into three states from the summit of Baldhead. Since, however, there was no way of telling where Connecticut merged into Massachusetts or where Massachusetts became New York one’s satisfaction in the feat was somewhat dimmed. Tom declared that the different states should have signs on them.
It was warm up there on the sloping, weather-worn ledge, but the breeze prevented discomfort. Tom hugged his knees, sending a puzzled look toward the distant links. Finally he seemed to see a light, for he said “By heck!” in a most explosive fashion, following it, after a moment of grim silence, with: “But I’ll get even with Billy!”
Later Clif recalled Walter’s revelations about the boy in the wheel chair, and he proceeded to spring the news on Tom. “Say, who do you suppose he is?” he asked, having introduced the subject.
“King Tut,” said Tom, hurling a pebble into the distance.
“No, seriously. Well, he’s Sanford Deane’s son!”