For the Honor of Randall Part 18

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 a.s.sure her, and in a little while he was back with a gla.s.s 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 cla.s.s, and that's why I wanted the coc.o.o.n. 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 coc.o.o.n 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.

CHAPTER XII

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."