“It’s seventeen after two,” Mr. Bingham was continuing, “and I won’t be able to make as good time as we did coming up, I guess. Won’t make Providence much before six, probably. Got to get gas somewhere, too. Well, I’d say you were pretty nicely fixed here, son: nice room, fine buildings, lots of—of grounds, eh? And the Doctor struck me as a particularly fine sort. Not at all the type of man you—er—picture as a school principal. Got a good business head, I’d say. Well—”
Mr. Bingham looked approvingly over the scene, nodded commendingly and drew on his left-hand glove. Clif, realizing that speech was at last imperative, swallowed hard. “Don’t forget to have some air put in that left rear tire, dad,” he managed. “I think there’s a valve leak. It was all right when we left home.”
His voice sounded sort of squeaky at first, he thought, but he had it under excellent control toward the last. He hoped his father hadn’t noticed anything wrong with it.
“That’s so,” agreed Mr. Bingham heartily. “Mustn’t forget that. Don’t want to have to make a change on the road.” He turned down his glove at the wrist—he always wore just one when he drove the car, and never buttoned it—gave a final tug to his tweed cap and began the descent of the six stone steps. Clif followed, his brown hands thrust deep into the pockets of his knickers, his well-set shoulders swinging carelessly. Few fellows had arrived yet, but the car stood in plain view of many windows and it was up to him to affect a nonchalance he was far from feeling. Mr. Bingham climbed into the seat, glanced again at his watch and turned the switch. Clif slammed the door shut with a bang. Mr. Bingham pressed down on the starter and a low, steady hum came from under the long blue hood. “Well,” he said, “let’s hear from you often, Clifton.”
“Yes, sir.” Clif’s cheerful grin tightened up harder than ever. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the idiotic expression off his face! His father’s use of his full name had almost done for him. Years ago, when he was just a little kid, his father used to kiss him when they parted; even after his mother’s death, when there seemed no excuse at all for it; but nowadays Mr. Bingham said “Clifton” instead, and they both understood. And now he had gone and done it again, and Clif’s throat felt worse than ever and his eyes felt smarty and—gosh, he wished dad would hurry up and go!
Perhaps dad suspected further delay might prove dangerous, for he suddenly reached his ungloved hand over the top of the door and said very gruffly, “So long, son! Be a good chap!” And Clif returned the tight grasp and nodded silently, and the big touring car purred more loudly for an instant and swept off down the blue gravel driveway and in a twinkling became just a moving shadow between the trunks of the trees where the drive curved to the gate. Clifton Cobb Bingham watched it disappear, waved a gayly negligent hand—although the lone occupant of the car never once looked around—and then, that frozen grin still on his face, lounged back across the gravel to the entrance of West Hall. Probably, he was reflecting, not a soul had watched that parting, but it wouldn’t do to take chances, and so he played the rôle of stoic to the end, or, rather, as far as the second step.
He was there when an object disconcertingly obtruded itself on his vision. It was a brown, rubber-soled shoe dangling from the end of an amazingly colorful golf hose. Clif’s gaze darted higher and his own fixed grin was instantly reflected. Only, whereas Clif’s facial contortion was designed to express ease and gayety, the countenance of the boy seated on the top step unquestionably indicated derision. The fellow hadn’t been there when Clif had followed his father to the car, but he must have appeared soon after, for his countenance said as plainly as words could have said it: “You didn’t fool me! Almost cried, didn’t you? Couldn’t even say good-by to him! Gee, what a baby! Huh!”
Clif’s grin vanished. With one foot on the next step above, he stood stock still and glared back at the boy. He felt outraged, degraded and very, very angry. The other stared steadily, maliciously back at him. Clif’s hands closed and tightened. Then:
“Go on,” he demanded, his voice low and tight. “Go on and say it!”
The other only chuckled mirthlessly, still staring.