[CHAPTER IX]
ANTHONY STUDIES A TIME-TABLE
Anthony returned to his room after the first recitation. He had discovered while in his class that he had forgotten his watch, and remembered that he had left it lying on his study table. The first thing that caught his eyes when he entered his room was an envelope bearing the inscription in a round, boyish hand, “Anthony Tidball. Present.” Wondering, he tore it open. Something fell from it and rolled to the floor. When found it proved to be a brown Florida bean with a little gold-plated swivel at one end. Anthony stared from the bean to the envelope; then the thought that the latter probably held a note came to him and he went back to it.
He read the note very slowly, a frown deepening the while on his face. He read it the second time and then carefully restored it to the envelope, thrust his big hands into his trousers pockets and lurched to the dormer-window. For a minute or two he stood there looking out across the Common into a tender green mist of quickening branches. Finally he sighed, shook his head, and turned back to the room.
“Poor kid,” he muttered.
But perhaps, he reflected, it was not too late to intercept him. When did the trains leave? He pulled out a table drawer and found a time-card. There was one at 9.22; that had gone. There was another, an express, at 10.16. If Jack had missed the first it was possible, thought Anthony, to reach the station in time to bring him back. It was now——
He felt for his watch, and for the first time since finding the note recollected the reason of his return. He glanced quickly over the table. The watch was not in sight. He distinctly remembered placing it on the blotting-pad while he changed the rather heavy vest he had been wearing all winter for a lighter one. He pushed aside books and papers and searched the table from end to end. Then he went through his drawers and finally, while realizing the uselessness of it, unlocked and searched his trunk. After he had felt in the pockets of what few clothes he possessed he accepted the fact that the watch was gone. But where? Who could have taken it? Who had been in the room—besides Jack? Jack——!
He sat down in the rocker and stared blankly, frowningly, at the window. It was the stupidest thing in the world to suspect Jack. And yet—! With a mutter of disgust at himself for the entertainment of such a wild suspicion, he jumped up and surveyed the room. But the bed was still unmade and the momentary hope that Mrs. Dorlon might have come across the watch and put it away for him had to be relinquished. He hurried down-stairs and found his hostess in the kitchen. No, she told him, she hadn’t been up-stairs yet and hadn’t seen the watch. Had any one been up there? Well, she didn’t know of any one. Still, the door had been open all the morning and— Why, yes, come to think of it, she had thought once that she heard footsteps up-stairs and presumed that they were Mr. Weatherby’s, though to be sure she hadn’t seen him come in or go out. Could she help Mr. Tidball look for it?
Anthony politely declined her proffered assistance and returned to his room. He searched again about the table, striving to convince himself that he had not left the watch there; that he had worn it to recitation, that the chain had become detached from his buttonhole and that the watch had fallen from his pocket. But it wouldn’t do. He remembered clearly just how the timepiece had looked lying in its chamois case upon the blotter, with the heavy gold chain curling away toward the ink-bottle. Perhaps Jack had come in to find out the time and had unconsciously taken the watch back to his room with him? Of course, that must be it!
He strode across the hall and into the other chamber. There were evidences of hurried flight; the little steamer trunk stood in the middle of the floor and a few odds and ends of rubbish lay about the bed and table. But the watch was not in sight. The latest explanation of its disappearance had seemed so plausible that Anthony experienced keen disappointment. Turning, he retraced his steps toward the door. Half-way there he stopped and stared as though fascinated at something lying at his feet. Stooping, he picked it up and looked at it carefully in the forlorn hope that it would prove to be other than what it was, a little chamois watch-pouch.
Finally he dropped it into his pocket and went back to his room, stepping very quietly, as though leaving a chamber of sickness. He stared aimlessly about for a moment, and then, with a start, took up his note-books and descended the stairs. Mrs. Dorlon, blacking the kitchen stove, heard the door open and looked up to see the lean, spectacled face of her new lodger peering through. He looked rather pale and sickly that morning, she thought.