"Sure. He said he wasn't going to the dinner at all. Had a date in town with some girl, I believe." Tom winced, not altogether with pain. "Why are you so anxious about Langridge?" went on Phil.
"Nothing, only—only I thought I saw him around the shack."
"Must have been mistaken. You and I were the only ones they managed to get this far, and they wouldn't have had me, only about a dozen of them tackled me at once."
"That's what they did to me," admitted Tom.
"Our fellows made a mistake," declared Phil. 'We should have been more foxy. However, I think we all got away. The last bunch the sophs tackled were too much for them, and they had to call for help. That's why those at the shack left it. But come on, we'll get to Haddonfield. It isn't very late."
Tom did not feel much like going to a dinner, but he repressed his disinclination and bit his lips to keep back little exclamations of pain.
Phil and Tom, eluding the sophomores who prowled about in scattered parties, found most of their chums gathered in the hall where the spread was arranged. They were greeted with cheers on their entrance and made to tell their adventures, but Tom did not mention Langridge. He explained his injured arm by saying he had twisted it in his fall.
