Ever since his return from Princeton in June, Harold Mason had spent part of each day with his fair neighbor, Ruth Henry. More or less of a stranger in town, and having been away at college for four months, he had not formed any deep friendships with the young men of his own age. It was true that Jack Wilkinson had been fairly chummy with him, including him often among his crowd, in which Harold had always had a good time; but he had singled out no individual for his especial friend. Perhaps Ruth Henry was largely the cause of this.

For the young people had spent as much time together as Mrs. Henry would permit, and as Ruth would spare away from Jack Wilkinson, with whom the old boy and girl friendship still persisted, in spite of the many disturbances between the former and Jack’s sister, Marjorie.

Ruth and Harold had played tennis together almost every day, had sometimes gone for walks, and had taken a “spin” almost every evening after supper. The boy was deeply infatuated with his99 spirited young companion; now that she was away, he missed her most frightfully. He sometimes thought of looking for a summer job, but the hope that Ruth might telegraph to summon him to her aid prevented him. He wanted to be free to go the instant he received word. It was his dream day and night that she would want him, that he would be able to carry out the plan they had secretly plotted and that Ruth would win the meet at Silvertown. Perhaps she would be so overjoyed with his cleverness that she would obtain permission to invite him to Silvertown over the week end! He would take his Ford Sedan, and it would be the only car among the crowd; he would be the most popular of young men, and Ruth, seeing how the others admired him, would be proud to claim him as her particular friend!

It was, therefore, with a thrill of joy that he received the telegram and opened it to read the brief message. His eyes lit up instantly; then, glancing at his father who was awaiting the news, he stuffed the yellow paper into his pocket.

“A peach of an invitation from Miles Carter!” he exclaimed. “A stag house-party! By Jupiter, I’m glad I’m not working—and have to miss it!”

The explanation was, of course, made up on the spot; even the name was fictitious. Harold had just finished reading a book with such a character, and it was the first name that popped into his head.

100 “When does it begin?” asked Mrs. Mason, who had just entered the room in time to hear the story.

“Tomorrow, in time for dinner; Miles said last May that this might come off, if he could get a certain bungalow. But he said he wouldn’t know ahead of time, so he’d have to wire.”

The boy smiled in satisfaction at his ingenious explanation; it certainly was not a bad extemporaneous one. He was trying to decide where to locate the party, when the very question was put by his father.

“Where is it to be?”

“Atlantic City!” he replied without the slightest hesitation.

“Can I help you pack?” suggested his mother.

“No, thanks,” said Harold, hastily, rather alarmed at the idea. His plan necessitated a complete disguise, and he had no desire for his mother to catch a glimpse of it.

“Going in the car?” asked his father.

“Sure, Mike!”

Once in his room he bolted the door and unlocked a big wooden chest which was beneath his bed. Then he drew out a bedraggled grey wig, with a beard and mustache to match, a complete make-up outfit, a mussed shirt and celluloid collar, a red necktie, a suit with baggy trousers, and a pair of old man’s shoes.

“Pshaw, I forgot a hat!” he muttered. “Wouldn’t101 my spick and span Panama look ridiculous with this rig!”

He sat down on the edge of the bed to think. At last he decided upon his own grey felt, which he thought he could twist so out of shape as to make it look appropriate.

Next he packed these things, and locking all his dress and sport clothing in the wooden chest in the effort to deceive his mother into thinking he had taken them, he began to count his money. Fortunately, Harold Mason had his own bank account; for he could not guess just how much money he might need, and it would have been embarrassing indeed to have to ask his father for some, and have to make up other fictitious explanations.

He made all his preparations, for he intended to start early Thursday morning. And by six o’clock he was on his way, his disguise in the suitcase in the back of the machine, and his copy of the map in his pocket. The road was good, and he knew the country well; there was no cause for delay. The distance covered by the canoes, slowly following the winding course of the stream, was made with great rapidity in the car. By noon he had reached the town from which Ruth had sent the telegram.

Although Harold’s mother had packed him some sandwiches, the boy was almost starved, and he made immediately for the only hotel in the town—the little Green Tree Inn.

102 He had hardly entered the door, when a servant approached him.

“Mr. Harold Mason?” he inquired.

Harold stopped, amazed. How could anyone here know his name?

“Yes,” he replied.

“One of the young ladies left a letter here for you,” the boy said, producing an envelope from his pocket.

While Harold ate his dinner he read Ruth’s letter, which went into the minutest details. It was a friendly, intimate letter,............