  “Who’s going to the Greystone game?” asked Hazel, as part of the Alley Gang was walking back to the Hall after lunch one crisp sunny day in October. “I am,” replied Anne. “Ted?” queried Patricia, curiously. Anne nodded, adding with a broad grin, “Katharine and Professor Boyd are going with us.” Oliver Boyd was a young instructor, who had been engaged for the History Department that fall, a slim, attractive youth, whose big brown eyes looked shyly out from behind octagon glasses, and whose dark skin made the girls, when they wanted to tease Katharine, say he must have Indian blood in his veins. A melodious voice with a southern accent completed an ensemble that had proved most intriguing to the women of Granard. All the girls smiled upon him, and the registration in History V was unusually heavy that term. That he was girl-shy had been the consensus of opinion until one day Katharine happened to run across him in the Varsity Book Shoppe; and a discussion, begun from the talkative Katharine over the respective merits of note book covers No. 1 and No. 3, had been the beginning of the most talked-of of college romances. “Now just wouldn’t a retiring daisy like Professor Boyd pick a roughneck like Katharine?” commented Lucile disgustedly. “I should think she’d scare him to death.” “You’re just jealous!” retorted Hazel, quick to come to the support of her room mate. “Indeed I’m not,” contradicted Lucile promptly; “but you can’t deny that they’re no more suited to each other than—” “Oh, but opposites attract,” interrupted Betty; “remember your psychology, or was it physics?” “Who else is going to the game?” inquired Jane, returning to the original topic of conversation in an attempt to check the friction. “Francie and I are driving down,” replied Patricia, smiling down at the round-faced little girl beside her. For several weeks now, Patricia had been the proud possessor of the car which her father had bought for her. “Where’s the Boy Friend?” asked Hazel curiously, turning to look at Frances. “On the outs,” was the quick reply. “How come?” inquired Lucile. “Well, Joe said he wished Tut Miller would get a chance to play in the Greystone game—” “Oh—oh!” protested her companions in chorus. “Yes, that’s just the way I felt,” asserted Frances; “so we promptly had a row.” “But why,” protested Jane, “should he want Jack Dunn to be taken out of the lineup. He’s a far better player than Tut.” “I know, but I figured it out this way: Joe and Tut were at Huron Prep together, and Joe’s got an awful case on Tut. When football practice started, Tut went over big until Jack began to show what he was made of.” “And naturally Joe sizzled when Jack got on the regulars and Tut was his sub,” finished Jane. “Jack’s the better of the two, of course,” agreed Anne; “but I don’t fall for him the way the rest of you do. He seems to me to be rather too sure of himself.” “Who has a better right?” asked Lucile sharply. “He’s been the absolute idol of this college and town ever since he made the team.” Before this challenge could be taken up, there was a sound of running footsteps behind them, and Clarice violently pushed in between Jane and Anne. “What do you think?” she cried, noisily. “We don’t think,” retorted Lucile crisply. “We leave that for you.” “What is the excitement, Clarice?” inquired Jane quickly, trying to cover Lucile’s unkind thrust at Clarice’s poor scholarship. “You’d never guess with whom I am going to the Greystone game.” “Then tell us quickly,” said Frances, “before we all die of suspense.” “Norman Young! He asked me in Physics Lab this morning, and—” “Physics Lab,” repeated Betty in puzzled tones. “How did he happen to be there?” “Didn’t you know that he registered late, and is a special student here!” asked Jane in surprise. “No; I—” “Where have you been all this term?” demanded Hazel in disgust. “Betty is more interested in certain people from home than she is in Granard students,” explained Lucile in significant tones. “I am not!” contradicted Betty promptly. “Don’t bother; she’s only trying to tease you,” said Jane soothingly, flinging an arm across Betty’s shoulder. “If I had a devoted boy friend who wrote me letters every other day, and came down to spend week ends here, I shouldn’t know all the college gossip either.” Meanwhile Anne was whispering to Patricia: “Wonder how Lucile likes Clarice’s walking off with Norman.” “Why?” said Pat. “I didn’t know that she considered him her special property. She’s been going around with Tut.” “I’m not sure that she does, only I feel it in my bones, someway, that the meeting at ‘Hill Top’ on the day we arrived was not all chance. I do know that she pricks up her ears whenever he is mentioned.” They had reached the library, and Pat reluctantly left her companions. “I’m due here, kids,” she called from the third step, as Jane demanded why she was deserting them. “Something I’ve got to look up. See you later.” Waving her hand gaily, she ran up the long flight of steps and entered the old grey building. Some of the rooms were used for graduate work, or small classes of men students; and Patricia could hear Professor Donnell’s voice quite distinctly as she passed down the corridor to the reference department. Three-quarters of an hour later, having secured the necessary information, she was just approaching the outside doorway when Professor Donnell’s class came out of its room, right behind her. Patricia was rather shy with strangers, and hurried a bit to keep well ahead of the men going down the steps. In her haste, she failed to notice, on a step part way down the flight, some matted, damp leaves. Her heel slipped on one of them, and she rolled to the bottom of the flight. Eighteen men promptly sprang to her assistance, but the long legs of a thin dark boy brought him first upon the scene. “Are you hurt?” he asked, raising Patricia to her feet. Patricia looked up into solicitous blue eyes, bent anxiously upon her, and shakily replied that she didn’t think so. “That was a nasty fall,” continued the boy, still carefully holding her by the arm as if he feared she might collapse any minute. The other men had gathered about her in a semi-circle, and Patricia’s color came back with a rush, and flushed her face to a scarlet which matched the little hat which had fallen off during her descent and which one of the men now presented to her. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Lucile would say, if she could see me now, that I fell purposely,” thought Patricia, adjusting the gay little hat with shaking fingers. Then an awful thought occurred to her. Maybe these men thought the same thing! People resorted to all kinds of tricks to meet celebrities, and Jack Dunn’s acquaintanceship was much sought after. “I don’t know how I happened to fall,” she said, trying to laugh. “I’m not usually so careless.” “There were some wet leaves on one of the steps,” explained her rescuer, bending his head protectively over her. It was a fine shaped head, topped by wavy brown hair flung back from a broad, very white forehead. The hands on her arm were shapely, and the fingers long and slender. A thoroughbred, thought Patricia. “If you’ll tell me where you were going,” he continued, motioning his companions peremptorily away, “I’ll walk along with you.” “Oh, I don’t want to trouble you further,” protested Patricia. “I’m quite all right now.” “You’re shaking like a leaf,” contradicted her escort gently, falling into step beside her, as they started across the campus. “Let’s sit down over there a while,” he added, as they approached a stone bench under a tree near the Fine Arts Building; “or have you a class now?” “No, not until three-thirty.” “What year are you?” he began, as soon as they were seated. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” “I’m a Sophomore, and my name, by the way, is Patricia Randall.” “Mine is Jack Dunn,” said the boy, as simply as if his name were not known the length and breadth of the campus. “I’m afraid you are not very observing,” remarked Patricia. “Why?” “Because we are in the same Shakespeare class, and have been all this term.” “Oh, well, we’re seated alphabetically. I’m down in the front of the room, and you must be in the back. So that lets me out.” Three-thirty arrived long before they finished exchanging personal bits of information, and Jack left Patricia at the door of her classroom with a promise to see her again very soon. “How in the world did you get hold of him?” whispered Jane excitedly, as Patricia took her seat. “Tell you later,” promised Patricia, as Professor Yates glanced in their direction. After the class was over, the girls managed to get away from the rest of the crowd; so, as they walked slowly across the campus, Patricia told the story of the fall and its consequences. “You’re a lucky girl!” sighed Jane, as she finished. “To have broken no bones?” inquired Patricia innocently. “Yes, just that,” replied her companion, with exaggerated emphasis. “Broken hearts not taken into account.” “I suppose the girls will razz the life out of me,” commented Patricia, after a short pause. “Don’t tell them anything about it, then. I shan’t mention it.” “But suppose some of them saw us together?” “That’s all right. If they don’t know how you met him, it will give them something to think about.” That evening Patricia was keenly aware of curious eyes fixed upon her as she stood in front of Arnold Hall talking to Jack Dunn. He had stepped up to her just as she was following Jane and Anne to the post office after dinner. The girls obligingly hurried on and left the two together, but Patricia’s cheeks were red with the knowledge that they were talking about her as they went back to the dorm. “I was wondering if you’d go to see Arliss with me,” began Jack. “He’s on at the Plaza, and we’d be just in time for the early performance.” “I should like to see it,” replied Patricia slowly; “but—yes, I’ll go. I’m pretty sure Jane will sign the Black Book for me if I don’t go in.” “The Black Book?” repeated Jack in puzzled tones. As they started downtown, Patricia told him all about the Arnold Hall customs and rules, and answered his questions regarding the identity of several of the Alley Gang. “You see,” he said, “I don’t know many of the girls here; for I came only this year, transferred from Floynton University—” “And I from Brentwood,” interrupted Patricia. “Isn’t that funny?” “We ought to be friends, then, both strangers in a strange land. Shall we?” “I don’t mind.” After leaving the movie, they strolled slowly back to College Hill, chatting as if they had known each other always. “Will you come in?” asked Patricia, as they reached Arnold Hall. “Like to, but you see I’m in training and not supposed to be out too late; besides I have some boning to do yet.” “I don’t see when you ever get any studying done; you’re in classes all morning as well as part of the afternoon, and on the athletic field until dark.” “It doesn’t leave me much time, and I’ve just got to make good here.” “You mean in order to keep on the team?” “Of course; but there’s another reason too. You see, my dad isn’t well enough off to send me to Granard himself; and, well, when you’re indebted to somebody else for a big chance, why, you’ve just got to make good.” “I know just how that is; for I’m in the same position myself,” replied Patricia impulsively. “You are?” questioned Jack. “Then you would understand.” “Good evening,” said a smooth, low voice behind them, and they turned to face Norman Young. “How are you?” replied Jack briefly, while Patricia murmured a response to the newcomer’s greeting. “Clarice in?” queried Norman as he turned and went up the walk toward the house. “I don’t know,” replied Patricia. “I don’t like that fellow,” observed Jack, as the door closed upon Young. “You don’t? Why?” “Queer acting guy. Never caught him in anything; in fact I don’t know him very well, but I don’t trust him. Comes out and sits on the side lines to watch practice quite often, and he gives me the jitters. You know him well?” “No, I don’t. I was introduced to him at Mrs. Brock’s house. He’s her secretary.” “Who’s Mrs. Brock?” Briefly Patricia told him of their contact with the eccentric inhabitant of Big House. “She must be crazy!” declared Jack, as she finished her story. “You’d better not have anything to do with her. Say, what does she look like?” as a sudden idea occurred to him. Patricia described her as well as she could. “The very same!” ejaculated the boy, when Patricia paused. “The same—what do you mean?” inquired the girl, looking at him with a puzzled expression. “I was walking along Craig Street, right back of the campus, you know, one day about two weeks ago, when I noticed a little woman ahead of me drop a small bag. Apparently, she didn’t notice her loss; for she kept right on. I picked up the pocketbook, hurried on, and gave it to her. She looked at me sharply with the most piercing brown eyes I have ever seen—” “That’s she!” interrupted Patricia. “Those eyes fasten themselves on you just like tiny crabs.” “I presented the bag and told her where I found it. She said curtly: ‘So you’re really honest. I didn’t think anybody was, any more.’ It made me mad, so I merely said: ‘That is one of the things upon which I pride myself,’ bowed and hurried on. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I thought I heard her laugh. Must be cuckoo.” “She’s certainly queer, to say the least,” agreed Patricia. “I think I’d better go in, now. Thanks for the movie; I enjoyed it.” “Wait a minute,” urged the boy, laying a hand on her arm. “You’re going to see the Greystone game; aren’t you?” “Yes; Frances and I are going to drive down together.” “I’ll get your tickets, then. I’d like you to be where you can get a good view, since you’ve never been to a real big game before.” “Thanks a lot,” said Patricia gratefully, as she started up the steps. “Good night.” “Bring them to you in Shakespeare class Friday,” called Jack, just as Norman and Clarice came out onto the porch. Shortly after the street was again deserted, a masculine figure slipped out of a thick clump of shrubbery near the dormitory, and, keeping well in the heavy shadows which edged Arnold Hall on one side, slunk off into the darkness. |
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