if I don't return."

A light burst over Snorky, confirming his worst suspicions.

"Skippy," he said, seizing his arm, "you're running away! You're going
on the stage!"

He had not thought of this, but he appropriated the suggestion at once
by avoiding a denial.

"Snorky, old pal," he said solemnly, "stand by me now. When it's all
over I'll write you."

"But, good Lord, Skippy--"

"Don't try to stop me. My mind's made up."

"But I say--"

"I've given my _word_," said Skippy tragically. "If I'm not back by
eight o'clock to-morrow morning, mail this letter to my mother and give
this to the Doctor. Good-bye. God bless you--and I'll pay you back the
first money I earn."

CHAPTER XX

THE HEART OF A BRUNETTE

HE recovered the shoebrush from under the window of Tabby, the young
assistant house-master, and tucking it into his pocket, skirted the
outer limits of the school, dodged behind a fence, and creeping on
all-fours, made a wide detour via the pond and rejoined the high road to
Trenton which lay five dusty miles away. Luckily the evening was
overclouded and the shadows protecting. His problem was not simply to
arrive at the Lafontaines' at exactly the hour but to arrive there with
a cool and dignified appearance. It was hot, and the derby hat pressed
down on the vaselined hair was hotter than anything about him, hotter
even than the parched fields and the steaming asphalt which yielded to
his feet.

"Gosh, I oughter have brought a towel," he said, when at the end of
twenty minutes he stopped to remove his hat and allow the hot vapors to
escape. He sat down and fanned himself vigorously. Then he took off his
necktie and collar and placed them in his pocket, and finally shed his
coat under favor of the night. He could scarcely distinguish the road
beneath him, and several times only saved himself from sprawling on his
nose by a convulsive grasping at a nearby fence. But what did the toil,
the heat, or the terrors of the night matter? He was going to see her
again. Not only that but he would come to her surrounded by the romance
of a great danger run, just to sit in her presence, to hear her voice,
to see in her eyes some tender recognition of what he had dared for her.
This was romance indeed!

A dog came savagely out of the night. How was he to know that a fence
intervened? He ran a quarter of a mile and again sat down. It grew
hotter; he was dripping from head to foot. A wagon or two went by, but