  Spring came early that year, and the hills around Granard were a lovely haze of pale green. The woods were filled with delicate wild flowers, and streams which would be mere threads later in the season, now swollen by rapid thaws, were tumbling riotously along their rocky beds. Birds were darting madly back and forth across the landscape, seeking mates and places for cozy nests. “Pat,” suggested Jack, on one of the warm, bright days, “the spring has gotten into my blood. Let’s cut Shakespeare this afternoon, and go for a hike in the woods.” “Jack, you shouldn’t tempt me like that!” she cried reprovingly, stopping beside the bench where they had had their first talk. “I wonder if he’ll say anything important in class.” The boy laughed at her sudden change of tone and attitude. “I don’t believe so. He’ll talk on the last act. We know that pretty well, don’t we?” grinning mischievously down into the girl’s brown eyes. “We’ll take a chance anyhow! When shall we start?” “Right now. Shall you be warm enough in that thing?” “‘That thing!’ I’d have you know this is a perfectly good leather jacket which my father gave me for Christmas.” “My error! It’s good looking, anyhow.” “You can’t fix it up now.” Laughing and joking, as gay as the spring all around them, they swung briskly along the state road until they reached Tretton Woods; then they plunged in among the feathered trees. “Oh!” cried Patricia. “Arbutus! The darlings!” Sinking down upon a bed of last year’s leaves, she tenderly plucked a couple of sprays. “It always seems a pity to tear up a whole lot of it,” she observed, handing one piece to Jack, and fastening the other in her own buttonhole. A little deeper in the woods they came upon a merry little stream. “Look, Pat,” exulted Jack, “at that brook. Let’s make a dam—” “And a lake?” concluded Patricia, eagerly. Like two children they worked happily until a wide pond spread out in a fern bordered hollow. “Isn’t that lovely?” rejoiced Patricia, gazing proudly at the result of their labor. “It sure is! Gosh, Pat, look!” holding out his watch. “Half past five? It can’t be. How I wish now I’d brought the car.” “No, you don’t, young lady!” contradicted Jack masterfully. “A hike’s made on two feet, not on four wheels.” “We’ll be late for dinner—” “Never mind. I’ll take you somewhere to eat.” “Like this?” looking down at her soiled hands and muddy skirt. “Sure.” On the way out of the woods, Patricia’s attention was caught by a cluster of cup-like white flowers. “Aren’t those pretty, Jack? Let’s take them home as a souvenir. We’ve lost our arbutus.” Both stooped to gather a handful as quickly as possible. “Oh, the nasty things!” cried Patricia. “Their stems are just full of red juice.” “Looks for all the world like blood,” commented the boy, dropping his flowers into the stream, which quickly whirled them away, and wiping his hands on his handkerchief. Patricia followed his example. “It’s awful stuff to get off,” complained Patricia, still rubbing her hands vigorously, as they stepped out upon the state road almost under the wheels of a motorcycle. “Good Heavens, girl! Watch your step. That was a narrow shave.” “I’ll say it was. Why, it’s coming back,” added Patricia, as the car wheeled about and approached them again. “They’re troopers,” breathed Jack, as the car stopped beside them. Two young men gazed searchingly at the two disheveled figures before them. “What have you been doing?” demanded the man in the side car. “Gathering wild flowers in the woods,” replied the girl promptly. “Then where are they?” asked the other trooper, fixing his eyes on the red-stained handkerchiefs. “Some we lost, and some we threw away,” said Jack. “Give me those handkerchiefs,” ordered the red-haired trooper, hopping nimbly out of the side car. In speechless astonishment the hikers handed the crumpled rags to the man, who took them to the driver of the motorcycle, and both troopers examined them carefully. “Blood, without a doubt,” stated the auburn-haired man. “Guess we’ve made our catch. They certainly answer to the description of Crack Mayne and his pal, Angel. You’re under arrest,” he continued, turning toward the couple. “What utter nonsense!” exploded Jack angrily, but Patricia laid her hand on his arm. “We got those stains from flower stems,” she stated calmly. “You’ll have to show us.” “We can’t, now.” “Why not?” “Because we picked them all, and when we found that our hands were stained we threw the flowers away.” “Oh, yeah? Where did you throw them?” asked the driver, getting off and starting towards the woods. “They’ve gone down the stream,” giggled Patricia, her sense of humor unwisely getting the upper hand. In later days, when Jack wanted to tease her, he always said that Patricia’s giggle sealed their fate. “Quite clear they’ve been up to something,” muttered the red-haired trooper; “maybe a murder. You take ’em in, and I’ll poke about in there to see what I can find. Send Murphy out for me as soon as you get in.” Patricia and Jack were hustled into the side car, and rushed off toward town. Soon Jack took from his pocket a pencil and an envelope. “Better give middle names at the station,” he scribbled rather illegibly, due to the motion of the car. “Keep college out of it.” Patricia nodded; then Jack tore the envelope into little pieces, which the wind eagerly snatched from his hand and bore away. At the station, they registered as Peter Dunn and Alice Randall. The stained handkerchiefs were laid aside for expert examination, and the charges recorded. “Now may we go?” asked Jack, with elaborate innocence. “Why, sure,” replied the sergeant sarcastically. “Just walk right out.” “Hullo, Mac,” drawled an exceedingly tall, solemn-looking youth, letting the street door close with a bang. “What have you for me tonight?” “Only a couple of—” he began. The newcomer took one look at the pair; then announced without a trace of surprise: “You’re Jack Dunn, the football player.” “Twin cousin,” corrected Jack gravely. “Oh, yeah!” “Haven’t you ever seen cousins who looked just alike?” inquired Jack, raising his eyebrows in astonishment. “I have.” “That may be, but I didn’t see you on the field and off of it last fall for nothing. What’s the racket?” Before Jack could reply, the sergeant irritably gave the desired information, the last of which was drowned by a bark of laughter from the human bean pole. “This is rich! This is just too rich!” he chortled. “Brave troopers arrest couple of college students for gathering bloodroot. Oh! Oh!” “So that’s what it was!” exclaimed Patricia. “I should have known.” “You’re a reporter,” said Jack accusingly. “For the love of Pete don’t put us in the paper. We—” “Now listen, Bozo,” interrupted Craig Denton, “don’t kid yourself that nobody will know this story unless he reads it in the paper. One of your own fellows stopped in at the office before I came over here to say that a couple of college students had just been taken into the police station. That’s how I happened to breeze in so early, Mac.” “What did he look like?” demanded Jack. “Big blond; jaw sticks out like this; little bits of eyes.” “Tut!” breathed Patricia. “How the devil did he get hold of it?” exploded Jack. “Saw you brought in,” replied Craig, as he held the door open for them. “I’m taking these birds home, Mac,” he called to the sergeant. “So you see,” he continued, as they were out on the street, “you’d better let us present the story truthfully. It’s the best way.” “Of course,” replied Jack, ruefully, “you have us at your mercy.” “What did the troopers look like?” asked Craig. “I couldn’t describe them,” declared Jack emphatically. “Nor I,” agreed Patricia. “We were too much upset to notice details.” “I wonder,” mused the newspaper man, glancing from one to the other suspiciously; but both met his eyes with well simulated innocence. “We’re going somewhere to eat,” announced Jack; “better come along.” “Yes, we surely owe you something for your kind rescue,” laughed Patricia. “There’s an old saying about two being company,” began Craig. “Nonsense! Come along!” cried Jack, who had taken a liking to the grave youth with his keen sense of humor. “Where shall we go, Pat?” “Wherever we won’t meet anybody we know. We’re both sketches.” “No wonder we were regarded as suspicious characters,” agreed Jack. “Guess we’d better go downtown. Where’s a good place?” turning to the reporter. “We usually eat up on the hill.” “The Exeter, on Field Street, is good. Got stalls; you wouldn’t be conspicuous.” “Exeter for us,” decided Patricia; “and let’s hurry. I’m starved.” After a good dinner, accompanied by much joking and laughter, Jack escorted Patricia up toward College Hill, while Craig hurried back to the office of the Granard Herald, after promising to spare the principals as much as possible in his story. “Little did we think this noon what we were in for,” said Jack, as he was about to leave Patricia at the entrance of Arnold Hall. “I’m sorry to have gotten you into such a jam.” “You!” protested the girl. “Why, it was all my fault. If I hadn’t picked those flowers—bloodroot’s certainly the right name for them.” “But if I hadn’t urged you to cut—” “Oh, Jack, we had a good time; and, as for the unpleasant part, well, it didn’t last long. And it was an unusual experience.” “But it’s not over yet; all the publicity, and talk. Of course, I could stand it; but—” “You think I couldn’t!” finished Patricia with a flash of anger in eyes and voice. “I always try to be a good sport.” “You are; and I didn’t mean—” faltered Jack, distressed. “Listen!” said Patricia, her anger gone in a minute as she saw that he was really disturbed. “Everybody will laugh and joke about it for a while, and then—pouf! It’s all out, just like a candle. Nothing lasts very long.” “What about our benefactors’ opinion of the affair?” “Under the circumstances, he or she ought to take a sane view of the matter. We have done nothing of which we should be ashamed. Don’t worry about it.” With these words Patricia ran up the steps, and Jack strolled to the Frat House thinking what a sensible girl Patricia was, and what a good pal. A most amusing account of their escapade came out in the morning’s paper, and the college world rocked with merriment. Patricia and Jack were bombarded with jokes, questions, congratulations, and cartoons. The next day Jack and Patricia met on the stairs leading to their Shakespeare classroom. “I got a queer note,” began Patricia. “So did I.” “What did yours say?” asked Patricia eagerly. “‘Keep out of police stations in the future.’” “So did mine; but, some way, it didn’t seem cross.” “How could you tell that?” “I don’t know; but I just felt that whoever sent the note was smiling as he wrote it.” “You have a wonderful imagination, Pat,” said Jack, grinning down at her. “I only hope it’s a reliable one.” |
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