All that happened on Friday. Saturday was a wonderful sunny day, and
Jonesie, who had no recitation after half past ten in the morning, was
very, very busy. There was nine holes of golf with “Pinky” Trainor
before dinner, a visit to the village with Pinky in the afternoon
and a lovely rough-house evening of it in Steve Cook’s room. Steve
lived at Mrs. Sharp’s in Walnut Place, and as Walnut Place was a good
half mile from the nearest dormitory and Mrs. Sharp good-naturedly
lenient it was, in Pinky’s words, some party! Jonesie, Pinky and two
other campus dwellers left at a quarter past ten by way of a window
and a shed roof, skulking back to school by dark and devious ways.
Consequently it was not until Sunday morning, always a sober period to
Jonesie, that recollection of Wigman returned to him. The Smith Special
reposed on the mantel and ever and anon as Jonesie wandered about
the study donning one garment after another, his glance fell upon it
troubledly. Naturally Sparrow had been curious about the tennis racket
and Jonesie’s easy statement that he had “bought it off a fellow” only
aroused Sparrow’s incredulity.
“_Bought_ it! Yes, you did! Bet you stole it!” jeered Sparrow. Which
unjust charge so outraged Jonesie that he refused further enlightenment.
All during church, or more especially during the sermon――for Jonesie
solved some of his most momentous problems while the preacher’s drone
filled the quiet church――he considered Wigman. Something would have to
be done, but he couldn’t see what. He sincerely wished he had never
encountered Wigman. The whole thing was a nuisance! Of course he had
hedged enough so that if Wigman was dropped from the football squad
to-morrow Wigman couldn’t hold him to blame. Still, there was that
racket. Jonesie loved that racket and didn’t want to give it up, which,
he supposed, he’d have――well, _ought_――to do in case Wigman suffered in
the morrow’s cut. Jonesie frowned and scowled and cudgeled his brain,
but discovered no solution. During the rest of the day――especially
what time Jonesie sat and suffered in the composition of his weekly
home letter――the Smith Special looked down upon him accusingly,
reproachfully, until finally the boy arose and wrathfully cast it into
the closet.
By Monday morning he had forgotten the Wigman problem. Nor did it occur
to him again until, returning at dusk from an afternoon on the river in
a canoe with Pinky, Sparrow growlingly indicated a note on the table.
Jonesie’s first glance was at the signature, and when he read Wigman
his heart sank uncomfortably. Then, taking a long breath, he moved his
gaze to the top of the sheet and read: