“Practicing hard, Vern?” she queried, with a nervous little laugh, “Do you really think you’re going to beat us Saturday?”
“Sure of it, Hazel. You’d better order your mourning suit right now.” As he turned to walk with her toward the corner where the Weldon Park cars passed, it became growingly evident that she was ill at ease.
“What’s the matter, Hazel?” he asked finally. “If you don’t like something I’ve said or done, tell me what it was and I’ll apologize.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said, in a low voice, “no, there—there’s nothing like that.”
“But something’s wrong. What is it? We’ve been pretty good friends for over five months now. Surely you can tell me.”
Still she was silent.
“Is it Creighton?” he asked lightly. “Haven’t you changed your mind about him yet? Do you still think he’s a ‘low-down——’”
“Ss-s-sh!” She put her hand over his mouth. “Don’t—don’t ever repeat what I said about him—not to anybody.”
The Weldon Park car was bowling nearer.
“What’s wrong, Hazel?” he asked, leaning closer. “Tell me.”