To be exact, the day following
the imparting of Cora's news to Bess, of her automobile mishaps, the
day of the news which Bess retailed to her friend and chum,
concerning the trip to the West Indies, and the still more news, if I
may be permitted the expression, of Jack's sudden illness.
Cora and Bess had gone to the post-office to get the expected special
delivery letter, stopping on their way to speak to Dr. Blake, who had
agreed to meet any train on which the stricken Jack might be
expected. But, as it happened, his services were not required that
night, for Jack did not arrive.
To go back a little bit, from the point where we have left the three
girls sitting on the porch, Cora and Bess did find the special
delivery letter awaiting them in the post-office.
"And I'm glad you called for it," said Harry Moss, whose duty it was
to deliver the blue stamped epistles, "for I've got a lot of 'em
this afternoon, and your place is out of my route, Miss Cora."
"All right, Harry," spoke Cora, half-hearing. She was already tearing
open the envelope, as the messenger rode off on his wheel, certainly
at a pace to justify the old proverb that he was a rolling stone,
even if he had already gathered moss.
"Is it from Walter?" asked Bess.
"Yes, and it isn't as bad as we feared. Jack over-trained, trying
for a new position on the football eleven, and that, with some extra
studies he undertook, reduced his already tingling nerves to a
condition where he was not at all himself.
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