Boarding schools -- Juvenile fiction; Football stories; School sports -- Juvenile fiction; Teenage boys -- Juvenile fiction
Clif didn’t include his part in the action when telling Tom of the
automobile accident. He had merely encountered Loring Deane in the
village and returned to the school with him. Tom was inclined to be
hurt because Clif hadn’t asked him to go to the village, too. “Best
accident of the season, and I miss it,” he mourned, returning from
church. “Just my luck!” After dinner he suggested a walk, but when Clif
explained that he had borrowed Deane’s paper, and must return it to
him soon, he consented to sit on the steps in the sunshine, and peruse
the comic section while Clif dug into the football news. It was after
half-past three when the latter had exhausted the paper and, folding it
neatly, declared his intention of restoring it to its owner. But when
he bade Tom go with him, Tom refused.
“I’ll wait here,” said Tom. “I’m not feeling up to meeting your swell
friends just now.”
“But I can’t just shove the paper at him and run,” protested Clif.
“I’ll have to stay a few minutes, anyway.”
“Why?” demanded Tom.
Clif couldn’t explain satisfactorily without revealing the details of
the morning’s incident, and so he just said: “Gee, a fellow’s got to
be polite, Tom! I borrowed his paper, didn’t I? Oh, come on with me,
won’t you?”
Tom shook his head stubbornly. “Nothing doing. Stay as long as you
like. I’ll take a little walk. See you later, maybe.”
“I’d do as much for you.”
“You won’t have to. I’m not trying to break into the millionaire class.”
“Oh, thunder! You make me tired! Where’ll I find you in half an hour?”
“I’ll be around,” answered Tom vaguely. “Maybe in the village. Or over
at the golf course.”
“Or up in the attic or down cellar,” added Clif sarcastically. “All
right. See you at supper, anyway.”
He knew very well that Tom was slightly jealous, but it couldn’t be
helped, and he went across to East with the paper. Glancing back as he
went up the steps, he saw Tom meandering carelessly down the driveway,
hands in pockets, and head high. Clif grinned as he went on along the
corridor. “Silly old ass,” he murmured affectionately.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account