She had once visited the university buildings, but Professor Salazar lived not only at some distance from the college, but at some distance from everything else. Still, she had elaborate written directions in her pocket, and hoped to find the place without difficulty.
She had no sooner alighted at the station than she felt an uneasy consciousness that it was not the right one, and that she should have gone farther before leaving the railway. However, there was no certainty about it in her mind, so after asking at two houses half a mile apart, and finding that the inmates had never heard of Professor Salazar’s existence, she walked down a shady road, hoping to find another household where his name and fame had penetrated.
The appointed hour for the lessons was half past three on Fridays, but it was after four, and Polly seemed to be walking farther and farther away from civilization.
“I shall have to give it up,” she thought; “I will go back to the station where I got off and wait until the next train for San Francisco comes along, which will be nobody knows when. How provoking it is, and how stupid I am! Professor Salazar will stay at home for me, and very likely Mrs. Salazar has made butter-cakes and coffee, and here am I floundering in the woods! I ‘ll sit down under these trees and do a bit of Spanish, while I ‘m resting for the walk back.”
Just at this moment a chorus of voices sounded in the distance, then some loud talking, then more singing.
“It is some of the students,” thought Polly, as she hastily retired behind a tree until they should pass.
But unfortunately they did not pass. Just as they came opposite her hiding-place, they threw themselves down in a sunny spot on the opposite side of the road and lighted their cigarettes.
“No hurry!” said one. “Let ‘s take it easy; the train does n’t leave till 4.50. Where are you going, Ned?”
“Home, I suppose, where I was going when you met me. I told you I could only walk to the turn.”
“Home? No, you don’t!” expostulated half a dozen laughing voices; “we ‘ve unearthed the would-be hermit, and we mean to keep him.”
“Can’t go with you to-night, boys, worse luck!” repeated the second speaker. “Got to cram for that examination or be plucked again; and one more plucking will settle this child’s university career!”
“Oh, let the examinations go to the dickens! What ‘s the use?—all the same a hundred years hence. The idea of cramming Friday night! Come on!”
“Can’t do it, old chaps; but next time goes. See you Monday. Ta-ta!”
Polly peeped cautiously from behind her tree.
“I believe that voice is Edgar Noble’s, or else I ‘m very much mistaken. I thought of it when I first heard them singing. Yes, it is! Now, those hateful boys are going to get him into trouble!”
Just at this moment four of the boys jumped from the ground and, singing vociferously—
“He won’t go home any more,
He won’t go home any more,
He won’t go home any more,
Way down on the Bingo farm!”
rushed after young Noble, pinioned him, and brought him back.
“See here, Noble,” expostulated one of them, who seemed to be a commanding genius among the rest,—“see here, don’t go and be a spoil-sport! What ‘s the matter with you? We ‘re going to chip in for a good dinner, go to the minstrels, and then,—oh, then we ‘ll go and have a game of billiards. You play so well that you won’t lose anything. And if you want money, Will’s flush, he ‘ll lend you a ‘tenner.’ You know there won’t be any fun in it unless you ‘re there! We ‘ll get the last boat back to-night, or the first in the morning.”
A letter from his mother lay in Edgar’s pocket,—a letter which had brought something like tears to his eyes for a moment, and over which he had vowed better things. But he yielded, nevertheless,—that it was with reluctance did n’t do any particular good to anybody, though the recording angels may have made a note of it,—and strolled along with the other students, who were evidently in great glee over their triumph.
Meanwhile Polly had been plotting. Her brain was not a great one, but it worked very swiftly; Dr. George called it, chaffingly, a small mind in a very active state. Scarcely stopping to think, lest her courage should not be equal to the strain of meeting six or eight young men face to face, she stepped softly out of her retreat, walked gently down the road, and when she had come within ten feet of the group, halted, and, clearing her throat desperately, said, “I beg your pardon”—
The whole party turned with one accord, a good deal of amazement in their eyes, as there had not been a sign of life in the road a moment before, and now here was a sort of woodland sprite, a “nut-brown mayde,” with a remarkably sweet voice.
“I beg your pardon, but can you tell me the way to Professor Salazar’s house? Why” (this with a charming smile and expression as of one having found an angel of deliverance),—“why, it is—is n’t it?—Edgar Noble of Santa Barbara!”
Edgar, murmuring “Polly Oliver, by Jove!” lifted his hat at once, and saying, “Excuse me, boys,” turned back and, gallantly walked at Polly’s side.
“Why, Miss Polly, this is an unexpected way of meeting you!”
(“Very unexpected,” thought Polly.) “Is it not, indeed? I wrote you a note the other day, telling you that we hoped to see you soon in San Francisco.”
“Yes,” said Edgar; “I did n’t answer it because I intended to present myself in person to-morrow or Sunday. What are you doing in this vicinity?” he continued, “or, to put it poetically,
“Pray why are you loitering here, pretty maid?”
“No wonder you ask. I am ‘floundering,’ at present. I came over to a Spanish lesson at Professor Salazar’s, and I have quite lost my way. If you will be kind enough to put me on the right road I shall be very much obliged, though I don’t like to keep you from your friends,” said Polly, with a quizzical smile. “You see the professor won’t know why I missed my appointment, and I can’t bear to let him think me capable of neglect; he has been so very kind.”
“But you can’t walk there. You must have gotten off at the wrong station; it is quite a mile, even across the fields.”
“And what is a mile, sir? Have you forgotten that I am a country girl?” and she smiled up at him brightly, with a look that challenged remembrance.
“I remember that you could walk with any of us,” said Edgar, thinking how the freckles had disappeared from Polly’s rose-leaf skin, and how particularly fetching she looked in her brown felt sailor-hat. “Well, if you really wish to go there, I ‘ll see you safely to the house and take you over to San Francisco afterward, as it will be almost dark. I was going over, at any rate, and one train earlier or later won’t make any difference.”
(“Perhaps it won’t and perhaps
