“walking,” replied ned the next morning with enthusiasm, “is the very best thing i do. as our english cousins say, i’m awfully keen about it. when do we go and whither?”
“i thought we might start right after church service and tramp over to lloyd. payson says there is a good place to eat over there.”
“all right. that suits me.”
“you’re sure you weren’t going to do something else?” asked dan. “we aren’t likely to get back much before supper, you know.”
“i wasn’t going to do a thing, vinton. if i had been i’d give it up, because on a dandy day like this there’s nothing finer than a good tramp in the country. i’ll get into a pair of easier shoes, though, i guess.” ned observed his patent leather oxfords disapprovingly. “and i’ll meet you outside clarke at eleven-ten sharp.”
and so at a quarter-past eleven dan and ned took the road together. each had togged himself[195] in an old suit of knickerbockers and had put on a pair of good stout, easy shoes. the morning was just what one might expect in early november after a day of rain. there was a bright blue sky overhead, a wealth of golden sunshine and a little breeze from the southwest that held a tang of the sparkling sound. after they had crossed the bridge over the river and taken the inland road that led to broadwood, they had the broad marsh on their right. the marsh this morning was a wonderful far-stretching expanse of faded green and russet and gold and red, with, here and there, a brilliant blue ribbon of water winding across. on their left as they trudged over the road made firm by the rain, was a hillside of maples and beeches. the storm had almost stripped the former of their scarlet livery, but the beeches were still brightly yellow, while the ground was thickly carpeted with the fallen maple leaves.
for the first mile or so ned did most of the talking, rattling along unceasingly of every subject under the sun, drawing dan’s attention to a bit of landscape or a brilliant burst of color between whiles. infrequently a carriage or motor passed them, but for the most of the way they had the curving road to themselves. at the old cider mill, dan’s memory turned to the time the spring before when a number of them had gone over to[196] broadwood late at night and perpetrated an april fool joke on the rival school. he mentioned it to ned, and ned said:
“tell me about that lark. i never got the rights of it. you needn’t mention names, you know.”
so dan recounted the adventure and told how he had tried to keep gerald in ignorance of the project for fear the boy would insist on going. “i didn’t want him to, you see, because i felt sort of responsible to his father.” and how, when they had reached the mill, they had paused to eat some sandwiches they had brought along, and had looked up the road in the moonlight and seen someone coming. “we went inside to wait for him to go by. but he didn’t pass and after a while we peeked out and there he was sitting over there eating up the sandwiches. and when we got out it was gerald himself! he had found out about it and played ’possum until we had started and then followed us.”
“and didn’t the gardener over at broadwood hear you and chase you off the place?”
“he did. and he saw gerald and recognized him and came over and pointed him out to collins. we had a merry chase through the shrubbery and over the wall. the gardener chap got mixed up with my foot once when he was chasing[197] gerald and took a header. i fancy it didn’t improve his temper any.”
“i didn’t know anything about it until i got home,” said ned. “then my dad passed the morning paper over to me and pointed out the story they had about it. of course he suspected me of having a hand, but i proved a clean bill of health. it’s funny, vinton, they never tried to get back at us for that trick.”
“they haven’t enough ingenuity,” replied dan. “perhaps, though, they’ll think up some scheme by next first of april.” he chuckled. “i’ll never forget the way that strip of white cloth looked in the moonlight up there that night. we planted it square in front of knowles hall. it’s a wonder someone didn’t see us.”
“what was it you put on the sign? i’ve forgotten.”
“alf loring got that up, i think. it was: ‘father, is this a school?’ ‘no, my son, it is broadwood.’ ‘o you april fools!’”
“that was a hot one,” laughed ned. “i guess that sunk in! i’ll bet they were snorting mad.”
“they were. and poor gerald had to go on probation for a dickens of a time. so did thompson, later. i had to explain things to gerald’s father, which wasn’t much fun.”
“what sort is the old man?” ned asked.
[198]
“he’s a dandy. and he isn’t really old. you’ve seen him, haven’t you?”
“once when he came up to the school and spoke to us in the hall. i didn’t remember him very well.”
“he got home friday. gerald wanted me to go to dinner at sound view to-day, but i begged off. there’s a kid who has improved since he came to yardley. you don’t remember him two years ago, do you?”
“only dimly. i don’t know him very well. i used to think he was a bit stuck-up, but several fellows have told me i was wrong.”
“you were,” replied dan earnestly. “gerald’s just as decent a chap as there is in school, and i’m not saying that because he’s my roommate or because i sort of brought him up. but i will acknowledge that he wasn’t very promising when he first came. his father had pretty nearly spoiled him without realizing it a bit. but yardley is a great place to take the nonsense out of a fellow. gerald had his troubles for a while and then, having plenty of common sense, he took a tumble and knuckled down.”
“i ran across quite a character the other day,” said ned. “i guess it was two or three weeks ago now. a fellow named burtis.”
“burtis? i met him. he came to my room one[199] night just after school opened and told me to put him down on the list of football candidates, or something like that. i remember it tickled gerald and me to death. but he was rather a smart-looking chap, as i recall him. how’s he getting on?”
“oh, having his troubles too, vinton. we all do at first, i guess. but he will make good, unless i’m very much mistaken. i’m showing him golf just at present.”
“by the way, you fellows played broadwood the other day, i hear. how did you come out?”
“they won three out of five. they’ve got a pretty good team. golf is one of their strong suits.”
“they do some things fairly well,” dan allowed. then, after a pause, and with a smile, he went on: “funny, isn’t it, how rabid we are at first; when we’re juniors, say? i used to think that the broadwood chaps were a lot of thugs and assassins. my patriotism was absolutely murderous! after a while you meet some of the greenies and it’s quite a shock to discover that they’re really a very decent lot of fellows, not much different from your own crowd.”
“i know,” ned agreed. “i remember once when i was a youngster here; it was my second year, i think; i went home on the train with some[200] broadwood fellows. they sat across the car from me. i really expected them to be a lot of bounders and instead of that they were a fine-looking set and behaved themselves all the way to new york. as you said, it was something of a shock. and there’s the school, by the way. you can just see a corner of a building through the trees.”
“yes, i see. that’s the gym, i think. they’ve got a mighty good location for a school, haven’t they?”
“nice and high, but too far from the water. here’s where we turn off, isn’t it? what’s the sign board say?”
“‘lloyd 3? miles,’” dan read. “we’re almost halfway, then. it hasn’t seemed far. how are your legs?”
“just getting limbered up,” replied ned stoutly. “and it’s only a little after twelve. we can make it by half-past one without hurrying, i guess. forward, brave comrade!”
the new road, which led northward at right angles from the turnpike, was narrower and offered harder walking, but they made good time and at one o’clock were out on the saybrook road with their destination only a mile distant. lloyd was a tiny hamlet at the intersection of two main lines of travel, but it was a pretty, old-fashioned place, with huge elms drooping over comfortable[201] white houses and many tiny gardens still vivid with autumn flowers: phlox and nasturtiums and cosmos. the railroad passed lloyd fully a mile away, but for all that the hotel when they reached it was by no means deserted, a fact readily explained by the four or five automobiles standing in front or in the little yard at the side. it was a rambling white building with a veranda running along in front, and a swinging sign hung from a big elm at the corner. “washington’s head” was the original legend on the board, and under it was a weather-faded likeness of the father of his country. but, so the story went, a visiting artist, finding, perhaps, time heavy on his hands, had some years before turned the capital h into a d, so that now the sign informed the world at large that “washington’s dead.”
“i don’t know how you feel,” said ned as they went up the steps, “but i’m starved to death.”
“i feel a bit hungry myself,” acknowledged dan. “i wonder if dinner is ready.”
it was, and after washing the marks of the road from their hands and faces they graciously allowed the proprietor of the inn to conduct them to their seats in the dining-room. what followed after may be left to the imagination. there was an old-fashioned vegetable soup to start with of which ned remarked that they had managed to get[202] everything into it save the kitchen stove. and then there was fish and roast chicken and vegetables and apple fritters and salad and ice cream and lemon pie and cake and cheese and crackers and coffee. and if ned missed a single item or dan allowed anything to get by him i have been grossly misinformed. and afterwards they struggled out to the veranda, sank into two chairs, placed their heels on the rail and stared somnolently across the street at a funny little old story-and-a-half house almost hidden by shrubbery and box hedges. there was little conversation for a while. the sun was nice and warm, the breeze was broken by the corner of the veranda and life was very blissful and sleepy. finally,
“i suppose we ought to start back before long,” murmured ned drowsily.
“yes.” dan lifted his eyelids and nodded lazily. then he shut his eyes again and returned to a condition halfway between slumber and wakefulness.
“good night,” muttered ned. later by ten minutes,
“how many of those fritters did you eat?” he asked.
“four,” replied dan, this time without opening his eyes.
[203]
“i only had three,” said ned regretfully. “i think i’ll go back.”
“too late, too late!” murmured dan. “ye cannot enter now!”
“perhaps if we hang around here they’ll give us five o’clock tea.”
dan groaned. “not if i’m strong enough to resist,” he said. “what time is it?”
“haven’t you a watch?”
“yes, but i can’t get at it.”
“that’s my case exactly.”
five minutes afterwards ned remarked weakly: “i think it’s about a quarter-past three.”
“we ought to be going,” sighed dan.
“we ought,” groaned ned. after that silence fell again.
but presently a motor began to throb around the corner of the house and a big touring car, dusty and dirty, backed up to the curb before the door. the two boys opened their eyes with sighs and frowns and watched. a party of two men and two ladies emerged from the hotel. the man at the wheel of the car called to them:
“see if you can find someone to bring that suitcase out, jim,” he said. “it’s in front of the desk there.”
ned’s chair came down with a bang and he jumped to his feet.
[204]
“yes, sir; right away, sir!” he said briskly. in a moment he had dashed into the office and out again, bearing a big leather suitcase. dan’s chair came down and he stared in bewilderment.
“where shall i put it, sir?” ned was asking solicitously.
“stick it in back there, my boy. that’s it.”
ned deposited the bag, swung the tonneau door open and stood respectfully at attention while the party seated themselves. the man at the wheel put his hand into his pocket, selected a coin and handed it back.
“here you are, boy,” he said.
ned touched his forehead sketchily, “thank you, sir!”
the car bounded forward and ned, grinning delightedly, danced up the steps.
“i’ve made a quarter! i’ve made a quarter!” he chanted.
