"Goody," replied Tom, and smiled again, this time rather archly.

Lily was examining him between half closed lids. "And I think you have nice eyes, too--particularly the lashes. They are so long and silky."

"Well, it's a great secret, of course," replied Tom, "and you mustn't tell even your mother"--Lily giggled--"but I think you have the prettiest way with you I have ever seen."

"Oh, dear me, you are funny. Now you must keep me warm."

The car, it has been pointed out, was full of Woodbridge notables, and any warming of the young lady would not have been looked upon with favour. Nor would Tom have cared to warm her had they been quite alone at the North Pole. What an ordeal this was getting to be, and how lucky was Nancy, comfortably seated before the fire! How good would that particular fire be, and what a soft and fragrant place to ask a certain question! What a contrast Nancy made to this miserable girl beside him!

Nancy at the time happened to be repairing certain ravages that the tea had made upon her nephew's best blue suit, but the scheme of Tom's thoughts was not spoiled.

"Bad man, you're not showing me any kind of a time."

Tom was exasperated. A group in front of them had built a fire. "How would you like to go down there?" he asked. "Can you climb down over the side here?"

"'Course I can."

Tom climbed over the railing, dropped to the ground, and, turning his ankle, cried "Ouch!" loudly enough to waken the young Hartley man whose head was lolling over the adjacent railing. The youth looked up and beheld the lovely Lily poised, apparently preparing to fly into his arms. He reared himself up. "Come, lovely girl," he cried, "I love you."

And then as she swooped by, he made a grab at her and tore her dress.

"You bad boy," she cried, with little discretion, "you tore my dress."

"You bad boy," repeated the young Hartley man, "yuhtoradress, yuhtoradress."

Tom had managed to hurry her away, although his ankle hurt him considerably, but not until all the notables had seen the performance.

What a mortifying affair. No doubt many supposed that he was the one who had torn the dress.

Fortunately, Lily met a friend at the fire, and Tom was free for the time being. Would the wind never die down? The flag on the coach's launch was not quite so active. There was a rumour that they would start at six-thirty. Only half an hour more. Well, he could stand that. Lily seemed to be having a time with her new young man, and he limped over to a neighbouring fire where there were fewer Lilies and more heat. There he met a cla.s.smate of whom he was particularly fond; and before he knew it the starter's launch had put out into the river, and the parties around the fires were scampering back aboard the train. With considerable difficulty he followed Lily up over the side, for his foot was now swollen and painful. Finally, however, they were seated again, buoyed up with the thought of the race's being at last under way--when the starter's boat retired from the scene, and word arrived that the race would not be rowed until seven.

Tom could not cover his disappointment.

"I don't think you are very polite!" said Lily.

"Sorry," replied Tom, his ankle throbbing.

"In fact I think you're horrid."

"Good!" said Tom. Lily looked her rage and half turned her back on him.

Well, that was something to be thankful for, at any rate.

They sat there in ever-increasing gloom. Some of the Lilies gamboled back to shiver over the fires, but even they were beginning to droop.

Tom's Lily would have joined them--her new friend was not a wet smack--but Tom, with his throbbing ankle, did not offer to go, and she was too proud to suggest it. So they sat and waited.

The race was eventually rowed. At the starter's gun the train gave another convulsive jerk, which sent Tom's injured foot flying against the side of the car, and the crowd fanned into life its jaded enthusiasm. Out in the gathering dusk the two crews inched their way along. It was not quite clear which was which, the blades both showing black, and though Lily was certain she had located Platt and cheered l.u.s.tily for his boat, subsequent evidence indicated that he was in the other. The two cheering sections woke to frenzy, and the notables' car was swept with confusion. Lily was beside herself and kept jumping to her feet with an appealing cry of "Oh Platt!" Tom looked over at the Hartley car at one point and saw that his friend had apparently had fresh access to his source of refreshment, for he was now blissfully asleep, cheek on the railing.

At the two-mile stake--with a final mile to go--the boats were even, but both sides were jubilant, for from each section it clearly showed that the home crew was ahead. Then the train shot behind a heavily timbered point, and when the view of the river was again free, the Woodbridge sh.e.l.l was half a length behind and obviously beaten. A pang of disappointment shot through Tom. Oh, well, it was a fitting climax to the day. There they were, slipping back and back. They were splashing badly, and one of the Woodbridge men was obviously not pulling his weight. Then the Hartley boat flashed over the finish amid the tooting of countless automobiles along the banks, a winner by a length and a quarter.

The Hartley people had given way to a transport of joy, while their c.o.xswain crawled along his sh.e.l.l throwing water over the chests and faces of his men. The two boats floated idly about, their crews bowed forward, gasping in agony for strength. To the men in the Hartley boat came the faint sound of their grateful supporters. They had won--and what was an enlarged heart or, possibly, a damaged kidney, to such glory? The half hysterical screams of their Lilies were sweet compensation. As for the Woodbridge crew, well, they would have to swallow their dose as best they could--and wait for next year.

The young Hartley man next to Tom woke up. "'S the race over?" he asked.

"Yes, it's over," shouted Tom, for no one else heard him.

"Thank G.o.d," he shouted hoa.r.s.ely, and went back to sleep--a sentiment which cheered Tom so much that Lily, on the homeward trip, decided he wasn't quite such a dumb-bunny, after all.

XV

Scarcely a day went by now without Tom's tracing his steps to the Norris house. He seldom bothered any more with the formality of the door: going around to the terrace side, he walked into the drawing-room unannounced.

If no one was at home, he sat down with a magazine or book in the library or drummed at the piano. Then, possibly, he would go before anyone arrived; but the house which was so friendly to him and so full of Nancy, was far dearer to him than her own, for Henry's hostility was too marked to make his visits there other than difficult.

So it was that he came unexpectedly upon Mrs. Norris, Mary, and Nancy when he walked into the library on the day following the race; and then he regretted his free and easy entrance. For Mary was in tears and was receiving the comfort of her mother and friend. Tom backed hurriedly out, muttering an inarticulate apology and cursing himself for an awkward fool. Mary saw him, however, and with a sob brushed past him in the hall and went upstairs. Her mother who swept after her like a large and stately galleon in her black silk dress, was more troubled than he had ever seen her. Still, as she pa.s.sed, she told him not to mind. And then he was alone with Nancy.

"What on earth is the matter?" he asked. Nancy, too, was thoroughly upset.

"Just look at that," she said, and pointed to an article in a New York evening paper. "Woodbridge Professor Drowns," ran the headlines.

"Overtaken by Cramps After Eating Cherries and Milk." It appeared that Professor Furbush had defied the popular fear of the fatal combination and, in order to make his defiance complete, had promptly gone in swimming after eating it. The tragedy had occurred at the country house of relatives; and though a number of people were present, they took his cries for help as a joke until it was too late. The account went on to explain that it was more sad even than it might at first appear, for it was generally supposed that the dead man had been engaged to marry Miss Mary Norris, daughter of the Acting President of Woodbridge.

"Why, isn't that dreadful," said Tom. It is always a little hard to know what should be said in such circ.u.mstances. If the one who has just died is close to us, we don't think about what to say at all, but if it is only an acquaintance and we are merely a little thrilled by his going, it is difficult; for decency requires a solemn look and a shocked word.

So Tom did what he could to be decent; and Nancy, who was staring with half averted face out upon the garden, made no reply. She, of course, knew all the secrets of Mary's heart and must be sharing her sorrow.

Accordingly, any words from him, other than sympathetic ones for Mary's loss, would be untimely. Perhaps, even, she would insist upon remaining in sisterly spinsterhood! "It's awfully tough, isn't it," Tom added.

"Yes," said Nancy, somewhat faintly, from the curtains. Nancy seemed very much upset. Tom knew that Furbush had been a frequent visitor at her house, and probably she had grown fond of him. He was not at all aware, however, that Furbush's affair with Mary had progressed so far.

He could not picture Furbush marrying Mary--or anyone else, for that matter--and he doubted whether Furbush would have married her. Still, it appeared that Mary had cared for him, and now her little romance was over.

"It's awfully hard on Mary, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Furbush was gone. Who would take his place? His place, an a.s.sistant Professorship--there was now a vacancy! A flood of excitement swept through him. But how foolish to expect that it would fall to him. He had taught but one year, and he was only twenty-five. People still spoke of Harry Spear's having been given his a.s.sistant Professorship at the end of three years as a record-breaking performance. He knew perfectly well, furthermore, that he had not made a startling success of it; not the kind of success that makes a man jump from a Captaincy to a Brigadiership. Still, he thought he stood quite as well as the other young instructors in the department; and his "outside connections" were considerably better. After all, a man's career in college counted for something. And so, although he knew that the thing was impossible and that what they would do would be to go outside for an older man, he luxuriated for a moment in the picture of the Dean congratulating him on his success. An a.s.sistant Professorship and Nancy! The two were linked in his mind as the sum-total of desire; and since he could think of Nancy without thinking of the a.s.sistant Professorship, but could not think of the Professorship without thinking of Nancy, it is to be supposed that Nancy came first.

And there she was now, over by the window, painfully aware of the garden and fidgeting ever so little with the curtain. Perhaps this might not be such a bad time to repeat his question, after all. Had she not of her own free will come to the Norris house, at which she knew that he was almost a daily visitor? There was in that something to give him heart.

As if he hadn't enough evidence without it!

"You will admit, though, Nancy, that it was an awfully stupid thing for him to eat the cherries and milk, won't you? Everyone knows that it can't be done." Tom moved over nearer to her, but she did not answer him. Instead, she fixed her eyes steadily on the bulging root of an elm in the garden. She must concentrate everything on that to keep from being an utter fool. But what an hour it had been! First the dreadful news about Furbush and that thing in the paper, and then Tom's unexpected entrance. How wonderful he looked as he came into the room; he had been so self-possessed, and she should have been such a ninny in his place!

Tom took a step nearer. "Nancy," he said very tenderly.

The root was waving now; it _would_ become indistinct. How gentle he was, and how different from Henry! "Nancy!" he repeated. Then the root became altogether blurred and meaningless, and she felt him take her in his arms and kiss her. "Darling Nancy," he was saying; and, somehow, to her great relief, she found an apparently adequate reply.

It was decided that a long engagement was altogether unnecessary, a decision which was without repeal, in view of the absence of parental supervision. Why waste the perfectly good summer? Why indeed? And so the wedding was set for a few days after Commencement.

"That will give me just about enough time to get ready," said Nancy, "and I really think you must get a new cutaway."

Then at last Commencement was over. The electricians bore away for another year the last of the cla.s.s numeral signs which had hung from their respective Headquarters. The Headquarters themselves had been swept and cleaned and restored to their owners, and one by one the dwellers, in Tutors' Lane prepared to board up their houses for the summer and depart for the mountains or for the sh.o.r.e.