“Eleven; it’s that awful music. ‘Do, re, mi, fa, sol—’ Good-by.”
“Good-by,” answered Dick, getting up and looking around for his books. “I’ll see you at the game this afternoon.”
“Yes,” called Harry from the door. “And I hope we win.”
“Oh, we can’t help it,” laughed Dick. “It’s a way we have at Ferry Hill!”
But they didn’t win; not unless the score lied. Seven to five it was when the last inning was over. Whittier Collegiate Institute had some good batters on her team and they had little trouble in finding Post and Kirby for twelve hits. Chub was inclined to be doleful after the game.
“Rotten!” he repeated over and over.
“Not a bit,” said Dick. “The trouble was only that you fellows haven’t been practising enough the last week. It’s my fault entirely. I’ve been after you for track work, and you can’t do two things at once and do them well. I’m sorry, Chub, but after Saturday I’ll let you alone.”
“Think that’s it?” asked Chub, more cheerfully. “Well, if it is, I don’t mind so much. Whittier isn’t Hammond, after all. And if we make a good showing Saturday I shan’t mind losing to-day’s game. What do you say, Roy?”
“Me?” asked Roy, trotting away to the shower-bath. “Oh, I’m not worrying about anything.”
Events proved John the gardener to be a real weather prophet, for Saturday dawned clear and warm. The track and field meeting with Hammond was to begin at half past two, and at half past twelve Harry, music-roll in hand, was hurrying back along the dusty road from her music-lesson, fearful that she wouldn’t get through luncheon in time to cross to Coleville on the first launch. Silver Cove was half a mile behind her and the tower of School Hall was already in sight above the tree-tops when the sound of wheels reached her from the road behind. A station carriage drawn by a dejected white horse and driven by a freckle-faced youth of seventeen or eighteen years was approaching unhurriedly from the direction of the Cove. In the rear seat, as Harry saw when the carriage overtook her, sat a gentleman in a neat gray suit, derby hat and brown gloves. The gloves were especially noticeable since they looked very new and were clasped tightly about the handle of a slenderly rolled umbrella which stood between his knees. He was about forty years old, had a round, smiling face, shrewd brown eyes and a short, bristly mustache which terminated at each side in a sharp, waxed point. As the carriage jolted past in its little cloud of dust the occupant of the back seat, who had been observing the pedestrian for several minutes, laid a hand on the driver’s shoulder.