JACK OR TUT?
“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 _any_body,” 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._”