“Not a bit like it,” resumed the other cheerfully. “More like this. Get it? Sort of hinting at a secret sorrow or—no, that’s not exactly the idea, either. You want to look like the hero in the second act of the play, when everyone thinks he stole the jewels and the heroine spurns him. He knows that he’s innocent, you see, and knows that the audience will know it in the last act. So he just looks disdainful and a bit sad and sort of moons around by himself and smokes a good deal to salve his sorrow——”
“I can’t smoke,” interrupted Dud practically. “They won’t let me, and I don’t like it anyway.”
Jimmy waved his hand airily. “You get the idea, though, Dud. ‘Too proud to fight’ is your line, old chap. Now shut up and let me think.”
Jimmy’s thinking resulted in action. That afternoon about four he might have been observed lingering idly in front of School Hall, hands in pockets, whistling tunelessly, evidently quite at a loose end. Nick Blake tried to entice him up to Lit to play pool, Gus Weston suggested the joys of a trip to the village for hot soda and Pete Gordon strove to lure him to his room. Jimmy resisted heroically and was left to his devices. It was a particularly disagreeable afternoon, with a hard wind freezing the pools along the walk, and Jimmy from time to time glanced impatiently at the big doors behind him. But it was nearly the half-hour before they finally opened again to emit Ned Stiles. Warned by the creaking of the portal, Jimmy instantly assumed the appearance of one who, passing, has his attention attracted by the sound of an opening door. This in the face of the fact that he had been all along aware that Stiles, in trouble with Mr. Gibbs, the history instructor, had been having an after-school séance with “Gusty” in a classroom. Stiles was an upper middler, seventeen years old, an uninteresting and rather sycophantic youth whom Jimmy secretly disliked very much. Stiles suspected the fact and was consequently somewhat surprised when Jimmy, after nodding briefly, halted and awaited him at the foot of the steps.
“Hello, Stiles. Rotten day, isn’t it? Seen Guy Murtha lately?”
Stiles shook his head, changing his books from one elbow to the other in order to reach his handkerchief and blow a very red nose. Stiles always had a cold in winter and snuffled from October to April.
“Can’t find him anywhere,” continued Jimmy in preoccupied tones, accommodating his steps to those of the other boy and continuing on toward Trow. “Star Meyer said he thought he’d gone to the village. I want to see him awfully.”
“I haven’t seen him all day, I guess,” said Stiles. He was hoping that some of the fellows would look from their windows and see him hob-nobbing with Jimmy.
“Well, I guess I can get him at supper,” said the latter. Then he chuckled, and, in response to Stiles’ unspoken question, explained, “I was thinking of Star. He hasn’t got over it yet, I guess. Grumpy as anything he was.”
“Got over what?” asked Stiles eagerly.