"What 's up?" Charley asked.
"Nothing," Joe grunted.
"What are you doing there?"
"Taking my books home, of course. What did you suppose I was doing?"
"Come, come," Fred interposed. "Don't be so mysterious. I don't see why
you can't tell us what has happened."
"You 'll find out soon enough," Joe said significantly--more significantly
than he had intended.
And, for fear that he might say more, he turned his back on his astonished
chums and hurried away. He went straight home and to his room, where he
busied himself at once with putting everything in order. His clothes
he hung carefully away, changing the suit he had on for an older one.
From his bureau he selected a couple of changes of underclothing, a
couple of cotton shirts, and half a dozen pairs of socks. To these he
added as many handkerchiefs, a comb, and a tooth-brush.
When he had bound the bundle in stout wrapping-paper he contemplated it
with satisfaction. Then he went over to his desk and took from a small
inner compartment his savings for some months, which amounted to several
dollars. This sum he had been keeping for the Fourth of July, but he thrust
it into his pocket with hardly a regret. Then he pulled a writing-pad over
to him, sat down and wrote:
Don't look for me. I am a failure and I am
going away to sea.
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