Bob Somers’ expression had undergone such a sudden and startling change that Charlie repeated his inquiry with a rising inflection.
“Don’t you recognize him?” demanded Bob, sharply.
“Recognize who?”
“Why, Tom—our Tom Clifton, of course!”
CHAPTER XVI
TOM SCORES
“Oh, sugar! You’re dreaming. Pinch yourself,” cried Charlie Blake. “Tom is miles from here; he’s away back in Kenosha, you silly goose.”
“He was, but he isn’t; he’s right there in front of us.”
The “grind” gazed first at the tall boy, whose back was partly turned, then toward his friend with such an air of comical bewilderment that at any other time Bob Somers would have burst out laughing.
“It—it—certainly does look like Tom, but—but—why, hang it all, how can it be Tom?” he gasped.
Bob Somers smiled, and the next instant Blake heard him utter a lusty call which strangely resembled the hoot of an owl.