  “Will somebody stop that bell!” called Patricia frantically one afternoon a week later. She and Anne were in their room, trying to cram for a test in French. “No!” shouted Clarice and Hazel simultaneously. “We want to wear out the battery before tonight; and the coast is clear now.” Patricia gave her door a shove which made it close with a bang, and stuffed her fingers into her ears, while Anne did likewise. Presently the door flew open again to admit Mary. “What’s the idea?” she exclaimed, viewing the two girls with alarm. “That awful bell!” replied Anne briefly, withdrawing her fingers from ears. “What do you suppose Clarice and Hazel are up to?” “I’m not sure, but I think they’re planning to step out tonight.” “Rose Troy?” queried Anne. “I suppose so,” said Mary anxiously. Rose Troy was not a student at Granard, but at one of the college affairs to which outsiders were admitted, she had met Hazel and Clarice, taken a fancy to them, and subsequently invited them to her home several times. She entertained lavishly, and some of the girls were frankly envious of the favored two; others strongly disapproved of the growing intimacy. “But what’s the bell got to do with it?” inquired Patricia. “You poor innocent!” retorted Mary. “If the bell won’t ring when the back door is opened—and they find some way to have said back door opened for them—Doll can never tell what time the girls come home.” “I wish Hazel hadn’t gotten so intimate with Clarice all of a sudden,” mused Anne. “I wonder how it happened.” “Birds of a feather,” began Mary. “Don’t say that. Hazel is just like Clarice!” protested Anne vehemently. “Wait till I finish,” countered Mary calmly. “I was going to say that they both love a good time, and both let their studying go until the eleventh hour; furthermore, Hazel is terribly restless this year. I can’t make out just what is the matter with her, and Clarice is a kind of outlet.” “Rose Troy’s attentions are very bad for both of them, I think; and perhaps partly explains their intimacy,” said Anne. “How?” inquired Mary bluntly. “Well, they have a common interest in which the rest of us have no part, and Rose’s parties are somewhat stimulating, I imagine; more sophisticated than ours. Rose has lots of boy friends, you know.” “Ought we to do anything, about tonight, I wonder,” mused Anne. “No!” replied Mary promptly. “What right have we to object if those two silly kids want to run the risk of getting into trouble?” Suddenly the bell stopped ringing, and quiet settled down upon the house, just as Mrs. Vincent entered the front door, with her shadow, Ivan Zahn. “But,” persisted Patricia, still puzzled, “how will they manage to get in without Dolly’s knowledge?” “Oh, Clarice, on some pretext or other—she’ll know how—will ask for permission for both of them to stay out an hour later than usual. Doll will give it, and go to bed at the regular time. Then, with the back door key, which I suppose they will secure during the early evening, they will be able to get in and go to bed without anyone being the wiser.” “Clarice certainly has some stand-in with Dolly,” observed Anne. “She works hard enough for it,” retorted Mary. “What do you mean?” inquired Patricia. “Oh, Clarice is always sending Doll flowers, or candy, and naturally it makes an ‘imprint’; as of course it’s intended to.” About two o’clock next morning, Patricia was suddenly wakened by a flash of light. Wide awake in an instant, she waited tensely for the peal of thunder which she expected would accompany it—forgetting that the season for such storms was over. Electric storms were Patricia’s chief phobia; but no sound disturbed the stillness. Then the flash was repeated; again she waited, but again perfect quiet reigned. Just as she decided that one of the street lights must be blinking, a third time the light played on the wall, this time more slowly. With a fast-beating heart, she sat up, reached for her bathrobe, and stole softly to the window. On the path below, in the faint light from the street lamp, she could distinguish Clarice and Hazel. Evidently they could not get in, and had used a flash light to attract her attention. How to let them know that she saw them, without making any noise, was a problem which she solved by passing a handkerchief back and forth near the screen, hoping that its whiteness would be visible against the dark background of the room. Frantic gestures toward the back door answered her efforts. They must have forgotten the key. Creeping noiselessly toward her door, Patricia succeeded in opening it quietly and stealing down the hall without arousing anyone. Fortunately, the door into the narrow passage leading to the back entrance was open, and Patricia drew it carefully to behind her, in order to keep any sounds from the front of the house. With her heart in her throat, she turned the key, bit by bit, until the lock was released. With the same care, she opened the door wide enough to admit the two girls who were pressed close to its frame. As she was about to close it again, she noticed a bright light in Big House—in the room occupied by Norman Young. There was a slight jar as the door settled into place again, and the three girls stood silent, shaking with nervous chills, until they felt quite sure that no one had been wakened. Then, without a word, they all crept to their rooms. “Come on up to the Coffee Shoppe with me for lunch, Pat,” begged Hazel the following noon, as they left the house with the rest of the crowd for Horton Hall. “I want to talk with you.” In one of the cozy stalls at the back of the restaurant, after their order was filled, Hazel began bluntly: “You’re a good sport, Pat. It was darned white of you to let us in last night, and never say a word about it.” “Was the party worth the trouble?” asked Patricia, playing with the salt cellar nervously, and not knowing exactly what to say. “To be frank, it was not. I never had such a fright in my life. Rose’s party was all right. We had fun, out, after the eats, one of the boys proposed driving out to Kleg’s—” “The road house?” exclaimed Patricia. Hazel nodded. “Everybody seemed keen to go, so I wasn’t going to be a spoilsport. When we got there, we found a big crowd, and had trouble getting tables together. Luckily Clarice and I, and a couple of fellows you don’t know, got places in a back corner near a side door, like this.” Hazel placed a piece of roll and a match on the table to show the exact relative location. “We hadn’t been there half an hour when there was a raid—” “Hazel!” gasped Patricia, with horror in her eyes and voice. “While the first excitement was going on in the front room the two fellows who were with us hustled us quietly out of the side door, into Pete’s car, and brought us home. And were we lucky!” “You don’t know how lucky,” said Patricia gravely. “Did you see this morning’s paper?” “No, don’t tell me it was reported!” “It certainly was—” “Were our names in?” demanded Hazel breathlessly. “Not yours or Clarice’s, but several of the men’s, as well as Rose’s and her sister’s. Only for a kind Providence, you and Clarice might have been included,” said Patricia severely, gazing sternly at the white-faced girl opposite her. “I’m through!” declared Hazel finally. “This is the last time I’ll break the college rules; and—” “And what about Rose?” added Patricia. “She’s not good for you, Hazel. You haven’t the time or money to go with anyone like that; and her ideals and standards are different from ours.” Hazel looked at her plate and was silent so long, that Patricia began to feel as if she had been too frank. “You’re right, I guess,” she said finally. “I’ll give her up, even though I suppose she’ll think I am an awful quitter.” “Good for you!” commended Patricia heartily, beginning again on her lunch. “Do you suppose, Pat,” asked Hazel, after a short pause, “that the college authorities will hear that Clarice and I were mixed up in the affair?” “I don’t imagine so; the others were all outsiders, weren’t they?” “Yes, but, Pats; at Kleg’s I saw Norman Young.” “Did he see you?” inquired Patricia sharply, recalling Jack’s impression of the blond youth. “I don’t think so; but you never can tell. He was at a table half way down the room; and Pat, who do you suppose was with him?” “Couldn’t guess.” “Rhoda!” “Our Rhoda?” repeated Patricia, unbelievingly. Hazel nodded. “Don’t let’s say anything about it to anybody,” proposed Patricia after a minute’s thought. “It’s awfully queer, but since we can’t understand it, there’s no object in creating talk and making things unpleasant for Rhoda.” “No, of course not. I like Rhoda.” “We all do, and I guess she needs her job. She said something one day about some one being dependent on her.” “Do you suppose Norman goes with her?” continued Hazel, scraping up the last of her chocolate pudding. “I haven’t any idea. He’s been out with Clarice quite often of late. I hope she doesn’t hear about Rhoda.” “I don’t think she saw them last night, and I didn’t mention it. But Clarice wouldn’t care, as long as she had somebody to step out with. It’s a case of some boy with her, not any particular one,” replied Hazel, getting up and dropping her purse just outside the stall. At the same moment a youth, leaving the next stall, picked up the purse and handed it to her. “Thank you,” murmured Hazel, glancing up at the man. To her amazement and distress, she looked full into the pale grey eyes of Norman Young. “Going back to college?” he asked, looking first at Hazel and then at Patricia, who had just slipped out of her seat. “Yes,” replied Patricia briefly, when Hazel did not respond. “So am I. Guess I’ll walk along with you, if you don’t mind,” continued the boy, following them out of the shop. Once on the street, he began to talk about the Greystone game. “There’s a lot of money up on that game,” he remarked. “Not only among the students, but also among the townsfolk. Greystone has a player almost as famous as our Dunn, and the betting between the two factions is heavy. If Dunn were to be out of the game for any reason—” “What would be likely to keep him out?” inquired Hazel sharply, while Patricia listened breathlessly. “Oh, I don’t know,” laughed Norman; “probably nothing at all. I was only mentioning an improbable chance of such a thing. But, if he were, the Greystone supporters would be in line to win a heap of dough.” “What kind of a place is Greystone?” asked Hazel. “About the size of Granard. People of the town are just as loyal to their college as we are here. Maybe a little rougher crowd than ours.” “Do you think Tut Miller has any chance of being put in for part of the game?” asked Patricia anxiously, the conversation of the morning recurring to her. “How should I know?” questioned the boy, looking straight into Patricia’s eyes with a peculiar, twisted smile. “You must know all the gridiron gossip,” asserted Hazel. “Why should I? I’m neither coach nor manager.” “No, but you watch practice a lot,” said Patricia before Hazel could reply. “How do you know?” he inquired curtly. Patricia laughed. “Did you ever know anything to be kept quiet in a college community?” Norman looked searchingly at her for a moment, then replied gravely: “Yes, a few things.” They had reached Clinton Hall by that time, and the girls left Norman at the steps with a hasty “We’re going in here. Goodbye.” “Pat!” gasped Hazel, clasping the other girl’s arm in a frenzied grasp as they hurried along the hall toward their classroom. “Do you suppose he heard what we were talking about at lunch? He was evidently in the stall next to us, all the time.” “I hardly think so. We were talking very low,” replied Patricia kindly, pressing Hazel’s cold fingers. “He acted very funny, I thought,” chattered Hazel, trying to control the nervous chills which shook her. “Pull yourself together,” ordered Patricia sternly. “If he did, we can’t change it by getting wrought up over it; but I think we’ll just take it for granted that he didn’t. Don’t worry,” she added, as they entered Professor Donnell’s classroom. Patricia gave good advice to others, but during the class which followed, her mind dwelt persistently and anxiously on Norman’s reference to Jack’s possibly being out of the game. Had Joe some secret influence which might, at the last minute, result in Tut getting his chance? Did Norman have some inside information? Or was his supposition as casual as he tried to make it sound. Ought she to tell Jack, or would that tend to make things worse? “Mademoiselle Randall,” Professor Donnell’s smooth voice broke into her reveries, “de quoi avons nous lu?” “De foot balle,” replied Patricia promptly; then realized, too late, what an absurd reply she had made. Everybody laughed and turned around to look at her. Crimson with embarrassment, Patricia slid as low in her seat as she could, without landing on the floor. “Ce n’est pas etrange,” Professor Donnell smiled his oily smile as he passed a long white hand over his star-like hair. “Tout le monde parle, et pense, et entende ne que de footballe.” |
|
