IN BITTER SPIRITS
“Come on, Tom, aren’t you going to tog up?”
“Yes, get a move on, we don’t want to be late.”
“Let’s see the new tie you bought.”
Thus did the tall pitcher’s chums address him as they circled about the
all too small room when it came to the pinch of all four dressing at
once, and that in their best outfits, which indicated an occasion of
more than usual importance.
But Tom was not dressing. In his most comfortable, which is to say his
oldest garments, he lounged on the rickety old sofa, with a book in his
hand, and a novel at that.
But he was not reading, a fact which a close observer could have at once
detected, only there were no close observers in evidence that pleasant
afternoon--the afternoon of the May walk of Fairview.
Tom glanced from time to time at the printed page but he saw nothing of
the words. Instead, there came between him and the types, the vision of
a girl’s face--an imperious face now, with eyes that looked coldly at
him.
“Say, you’ll be late!” warned Phil, “and we’re not going to wait for
you. You’ll have to save your own bacon.”
“Oh--all right,” grumbled Tom, in tones he meant to be deceiving. “No
use of any more trying to dress in this bandbox. I can throw my things
on in a jiffy when you fellows get out of the way.”
“Listen to him,” taunted Sid.
“I’ll bet he’s got a whole new outfit,” declared Frank, “and he daren’t
show ’em. Come on--be a sport!”
“Um,” mumbled Tom, as he turned once more to the book--but not to read.
“Where’s my hair brush?” demanded Phil. “If any of you fellows--Well the
nerve of you, Sid!” he cried. “Using it on your shoes!”
“They’re patent leathers, and I only wanted to get a little dust off
’em,” pleaded the guilty one.
“Hand it over!” sternly ordered Phil. “And don’t you take it again. Use
your pocket handkerchief.”
“Who’s seen my purple cuff buttons?” asked Frank.
“Haven’t got ’em. I saw Wallops the messenger with a pair like ’em the
other day, though,” spoke Sid. “Wear the blue ones.”
“I will not! I got the purple ones to match my tie. Oh, here they are. I
put ’em in my Latin grammar to mark a page. Say, it’s lucky I
remembered.”
“It’s lucky some of you remember you’ve got heads,” half growled Tom. “I
never saw such old maids! Don’t some of you want me to dab a little red
on your cheeks?”
“Cut it out, and come on, you old Iambus,” grunted Phil--grunted because
he was stooping over to lace his shoes. “Aren’t you coming, Tom?”
“Of course. But I want room to dress. You fellows clear out, and I’ll
follow soon enough.”
“Where’s the clothes brush?” demanded Frank, who was the nearest ready.
“Say, there’s enough dust in this room to stock a vacuum cleaner. Whew!”
“The rug needs taking up and beating,” commented Sid.
“Never!” cried Phil. “If we got it up it would fall apart, and we’d
never get it down again. Let well enough alone. There, I guess I’m
finished. How do I look?”
“Like one of the advertisements of college-built clothes from a
back-woods tailor,” said Tom. “You’re too sweet to live! You’ll have all
the girls crazy about you.”
“You’re jealous,” was the retort. “Get a move on, fellows.”
“Oh, sit down and take it easy,” advised Sid, who was struggling with a
new tie in a stiff collar. “Whew! This is fierce. I can’t make it
slide.”
“Put it out on first then,” advised Tom with a grin.
Finally the three were arrayed to their own satisfaction, and prepared
to depart.
“Shall we wait for you outside?” asked Phil of Tom.
“No, go on, get a car. I’ll follow. I want to finish this chapter.
There’s loads of time. You’re too early. Sit down and cool off.”
“What, and get all dust! I guess not!” cried Sid. “Come on, fellows.”
“See you later?” asked Phil, as he went out.
“Later--yes,” replied Tom, pretending to yawn and stretch, as though the
whole affair bored him. And then, as the door closed, and he heard his
chums walking down the corridor, he threw the book across the room,
leaned forward with his head between his hands, his elbows on his knees,
and gave way to bitter thoughts.
For Tom Parsons was not going on the May walk.
Many besides our three friends had fearfully, and more or less
wonderfully, arrayed themselves that afternoon for the annual outing,
and soon all roads seemed to be leading to Fairview. Sid, Phil and
Frank were among the earliest arrivals, and soon found Ruth, Mabel and
Helen, who were waiting for them.
“Where’s Tom?” asked Ruth of her brother.
“Oh, he’s coming later. He didn’t want to tog up with us in the room.
Guess he’s got a new suit. But where’s Madge?”
There was an embarrassed silence among the girls, and then Mabel said:
“She started out early, and wouldn’t say where she was going. I thought
she acted very strangely.”
“Say, she and Tom are up to some joke!” declared Phil. “I thought there
was something queer about Tom.”
“Then we’ll see ’em later,” suggested Sid. “Come on, it’s too nice to
stand still.”
They strolled on toward the clump of woods where the lunch was to be
eaten--happy lads and gay lassies with Springtime in their hearts.
And, back in the room of the four chums, sat a solitary figure--a figure
on the old rickety sofa--a figure that stared moodily down at the faded
rug--a figure that did not stir as the minutes were ticked off on the
fussy little alarm clock.
Out on the campus sounded the calls of a crowd of lads at ball practice.
Farther off could be heard the cries of those who were leaping, running
or throwing weights in anticipation of the track games. But the figure
in the room gave no heed to this.
Not moving, Tom continued to stare at nothing, and the bitterness of his
spirit grew on him.
“I can’t understand--I can’t understand,” he murmured, over and over
again.