It produced a most extraordinary effect on the tall lad. He swung around as sharply as though struck by some flying object. Then Charlie heard an answering hail of a similar character, and, at the same moment, saw the lad start toward them on a loping trot.
“Great Scott! It is—it actually is Tom Clifton!” he cried. “Well, well!”
On came the tall boy, while Bob Somers and his companion, perhaps more astonished than they had ever been in all their lives, walked rapidly to meet him.
Tom Clifton’s face, as he approached, presented a most curious study. He made a desperate attempt to appear cool and dignified, but, in spite of all his efforts, conflicting feelings of joy, triumph, and even indignation persisted in finding reflection on his countenance.
“Well, Bob, I knew I’d see you!” was his exclamation, as he seized the other’s hand. “That was a pretty slick scheme of Vic’s, but——”
“Slick scheme?” gasped Bob, while Charlie Blake’s mouth flew wide open.
“Sure thing! Oh, you needn’t try to put on any nice innocent looks.” Tom assumed an air of pitying condescension. “I got wise to your dodge, all right; yes siree, Bob Somers. Ha, ha! You chaps didn’t get up quite early enough to fool little Tom.”
“Why—why—what do you mean?” cried Bob. “How in thunder did you get here, and why?”
“Well, that’s a good one!” exclaimed Tom, indignation suddenly getting the upper hand of his other emotions. “Say, do you chaps see anything green in me—ah, do you now?” A scornful look flashed in his eyes. “Little Vic’s keeping out of sight, I suppose, eh? Thinks I might hurt him. But—but—honest, Bob, I didn’t think it of you!” he blurted out, unable to control his feelings any longer. “Honest, I didn’t!”
“What does all this mean, Tom?” demanded Bob, sharply.