THE WAY OF A MAID
“Who’s it from, Phil?”
“Let’s read it; will you?”
“He doesn’t dare?”
These comments greeted the advent of Phil into the room of the
inseparables, after a late lecture, one day about a week following the
events narrated in the last chapter. The cause was a pink envelope that
was exposed in a prominent place on Phil’s bureau--an envelope flanked
by a comb, brush, a handkerchief box and a red tie, to be thus rendered
all the more conspicuous. Tom, Sid and Frank, having entered the room
ahead of their chum, and seeing the missive, had thus called his
attention to it.
“What’s all the excitement?” asked Phil innocently enough.
“As if he didn’t know!” jeered Tom.
“I’ll give you a quarter if you let me read it first,” offered Frank.
“Double it!” cried Sid promptly.
“Oh, it’s a letter,” spoke Phil, as he strode over to his bureau and
picked up the missive. Then, with provoking slowness, he turned it over,
scrutinized the postmark, looked at the dainty seal in wax, and made as
if to place the letter back on the bureau.
“Open it you rascal!” ordered Tom.
“What for?” asked Phil slowly. “It’s only a letter from sis. It will
keep until I get my coat off, I guess.”
“A letter from your sister--not!” declared Sid. “I--er--I know----”
“Oh, you know her writing as well as all that, do you?” asked Phil
quickly. “I congratulate you. Maybe I’m wrong.”
Once more he scrutinized the address. It bore his name in big, and
rather sprawling characters.
“On second thoughts I guess it isn’t from sis,” he went on. “At least
she didn’t direct the envelope. It’s from Madge Tyler, if I’m any
judge.”
“What’s she writing about?” Tom wanted to know quickly, so quickly that
the others glanced at him, and Tom had the grace to blush.
“We’ll see,” went on Phil. Then, with exasperating slowness he proceeded
to read the letter. Next he carefully folded it, placed it back in the
envelope, and proceeded to get into his lounging garments.
“Well?” snapped Tom, unable to keep silent longer.
“Oh, I don’t know whether you fellows will be interested or not,” said
Phil slowly. “The letter was from my sister, just as I guessed, but she
got Madge to direct the envelope.”
“But what’s it about?” demanded Sid.
“Oh, the annual May walk, which takes place the last of April, is about
to be held at Fairview,” went on Phil, “and sis thought maybe I’d like
to go with her.”
“You?” cried Tom.
“Take your own sister?” added Sid.
“Well, unless some one else relieves me----”
“I will!” cried Frank and Sid together.
“Thanks,” laughed Phil. “Then I guess I can help some other brother out.
But, say, do you fellows want to go? Sis said I could ask you all. It’s
the usual affair, you know. The young ladies of Fairview, under the
eagle eye of Miss Philock and her aides, will go for a May walk, to
gather flowers and look on nature as she is supposed to be. There will
be a little basket lunch, and the usual screams when the girls think
they see a snake. Want to go?”
“Sure!” cried Tom, and the others chorused an eager assent.
“It will be a good time then, to ask the girls to come to the athletic
meet,” said Sid. “They will come; won’t they?”
“Oh, I guess so,” replied Phil. “They won’t root for Randall, though,
when there’s going to be a team from their own school.”
“Oh, we couldn’t expect it,” said Tom. “But we’ll have a good time on
the May walk.” And forthwith he proceeded to look over his stock of
neckties.
Not many at Randall were favored as were our four heroes in the matter
of invitations to the May walk, and when it became known that Tom and
his chums had one of the coveted screeds, their good offices were
bespoken on all sides, that they might use their influence for others.
“Nothing doing,” replied Tom to Holly Cross, Kindlings, and a few other
kindred spirits. “Sorry, but we can’t do it.”
“And the nerve of Shambler,” said Sid one afternoon, as he joined his
chums. “He wanted to know if we couldn’t introduce him to some new girl
at Fairview. The one he did know, shook him.”
“He’s getting worse all the while,” declared Tom. “There is something
about that fellow that I can’t cotton to.”
“But he’s a good runner and jumper,” declared Phil.
“Altogether too good,” declared Tom. “If he did as well at Harkness, as
he’s doing here in practice, why did he leave?”
“Maybe he wanted to get in a bigger college.”
“Harkness isn’t much smaller than Randall, and it’s got a heap sight
more money. He could have stayed on if he had wanted to,” and Tom shook
his head. Two or three things in regard to Shambler recurred to him, and
he found himself seriously wondering whether or not there was not some
mystery about the new student.
“Oh, pshaw! I guess I’m getting too fussy,” decided Tom. “I must see
about getting my trousers pressed for that walk.”
Somewhat informally among themselves, the four lads had apportioned the
four girls. Tom was to take Madge, Phil would escort Helen Newton, Sid
would take Ruth Clinton, and Frank Simpson would look after Mabel
Harrison. This pleased the lads, but they had yet to ask the girls if
this arrangement suited. To Tom was delegated this task, and one
afternoon he set off with three notes, his own to be a verbal message.
The choice had fallen on his shoulders as he had the last lecture period
free, and could make time to go to Fairview. It was with rather
pleasant feelings that our hero took the trolley to the co-educational
institution, and, when he neared the place, as it was such a fine day,
he got out about a mile from his destination, deciding to walk the rest
of the way.
As Tom turned down a grassy lane, that was rich in a carpet of green, he
heard, coming from a clump of bushes just ahead of him, a cry of pain--a
cry in a girl’s voice.
“Some one’s in trouble!” Tom decided at once, and, naturally he hurried
to the rescue. He saw, reaching up that she might pull a large cocoon
from a high bush, a pretty girl, a stranger, but who bore unmistakably
the air of a Fairview student. In an instant Tom saw what the trouble
was.
The bush was one containing big thorns, and, in reaching for the cocoon,
the girl’s arm had caught on a sharp point. She was held by her sleeve
in such a way that either to advance her arm, or withdraw it, meant to
further pierce her flesh with the thorn.
“Oh!” she cried, and then Tom came on the scene.
“Perhaps I can help you,” he said, with a lifting of his hat. “Do you
want the cocoon?”
“Yes. Oh, but don’t mind that now! If you can break off the thorn, so I
can get my arm out----”
A spasm of pain passed over her face, and Tom acted quickly. He wore
heavy gloves, but the thorns pierced even through them. But he did not
mind, and soon had broken away the offending branch, not before,
however, the girl, in moving her arm, had inflicted a long scratch that
bled freely.
“Oh!” she murmured, and she reeled a bit as she stepped back. “I--I
can’t bear the sight of blood!” she added.
Tom caught her, or she might have fainted, and then, being a lad of
promptness, he quickly bound his handkerchief around the scratch.
“If you will sit down here, I think I can get some water over at that
house,” he went on. “It will make you feel better.”
“Oh,” she began, “it is such a bother--I’m so sorry.”
“Not at all,” Tom hastened to assure her, and in a little while he was
back with a glass of water. It did make the girl feel better, and,
presently, she arose.
“I’m all right, now, thank you,” she murmured, as she walked along. Tom
watched her narrowly. “I ought to have worn gloves, or else have brought
along a pair of scissors,” she went on. “We have to do some work in the
natural history class, and that’s why I wanted the cocoon. I’m at
Fairview,” she needlessly added.
“I’m on my way there,” spoke Tom. “My name is Parsons. Ruth Clinton’s
brother and I----”
“Oh, I’ve heard about you,” the girl interrupted with a smile that Tom
thought was very attractive. “Ruth was telling me about you.”
“That’s nice,” laughed Tom, and then he caught sight of the cocoon that
had been the cause of all the trouble. “Wait, I’ll get it for you,” he
volunteered, and he did though he scratched himself grievously on the
thorns.
“I’ll walk on with you,” he said, as he rejoined the girl. “I have a
note for Ruth.”
“I’m Miss Benson,” said the girl, simply. “I am sure I can’t thank you
enough, and I feel as if I already knew you.”
“Good!” cried Tom, wondering how it was he got along so well with girls,
when he never before had been used to them.
They walked on, talking of many things--and the May outing. The main
entrance of Fairview loomed in sight.
“What shall I do about your handkerchief, Mr. Parsons?” asked Miss
Benson. “I’m afraid if I take it off now----”
She started to do so, but at the sight of a little blood trickling down
her wrist she shuddered.
“Keep it on,” advised Tom. “You can send it to me later. Perhaps you had
better have a doctor look at the scratch. It may need treatment. Some of
those thorns are poisonous.”
Instinctively he leaned over and began tightening the handkerchief on
the girl’s wrist. He was engaged in this rather delicate task when, from
behind a clump of shrubbery, stepped four maids. In an instant Tom knew
them for Phil’s sister and her three chums. They regarded him and his
companion curiously.
“Why--it’s Tom!” exclaimed Ruth impulsively.
“Yes. He--he helped me out of a bad predicament,” explained Miss Benson.
“I was caught on a thorn bush. I’ve scratched my wrist dreadfully,
girls.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Tyler, rather blankly, and Tom thought it was
strange that none of the girls seemed to take much interest in Miss
Benson’s injury. She herself smiled at Tom, and then said:
“I’ll go along now, to the infirmary. I’m _so_ much obliged to you. I’ll
send the handkerchief back. It was so fortunate for me that I met you.”
“She generally manages to meet _somebody_,” murmured Miss Harrison, and
Tom wondered more than ever as he lifted his hat in farewell.
“How are you?” greeted Tom, to Ruth and the others. “I’m a sort of
special messenger to-day.”
He pulled out his letters--one for Ruth, one for Mabel, and one for
Helen.
“None for me?” asked Madge, in mock distress.
“I--er--I came in person,” spoke Tom in a low voice, as he saw that the
others were perusing the epistles that formally besought the company of
the young ladies on the May walk.
“Oh----” began Miss Tyler.
“May I have the honor of escorting you on the outing?” asked Tom,
laughing to take out the formality of his request.
Miss Madge Tyler looked at him a moment. Then her gaze seemed to wander
toward the retreating form of Miss Benson. Tom waited, wonderingly.
“I thank you,” said Madge, a bit stiffly, “but I--am already engaged,”
and she turned aside, while Tom swallowed hard.
Clearly he was but beginning to know the way of a maid.