CHAPTER VIII

THE KIDNAPING

Fanwell Livingston was curled in the window-seat in his front room, his book close to the bleared pane, striving to find light enough by which to study.  Outside it was raining in a weary, desultory way, and the heavens were leaden-hued.  Livingston’s quarters were on the front of that big lemon-yellow house at the corner of Oak and King Streets, about equidistant from campus and field.  The outlook to-day was far from inspiriting.  When he raised his eyes from the pages before him he saw an empty road running with water; beyond that a bare, weed-grown, sodden field that stretched westward to the unattractive backs of the one-and two-storied shops on Main Street.  Livingston’s room wasn’t in any sense central, but he liked it because it was quiet, because aside from the family he had the house to himself, and because Mrs. Saunders, his landlady, was goodness itself and administered to his comfort almost as his own mother would have done.

The freshman president laid aside his book, grimaced at the dreary prospect, and took out his watch.  “Ten minutes after five,” he murmured.  “Heavens, what a beastly dark day!  I’ll have to start to get dressed before long.  Too bad we’ve got such weather for the affair.”  He glanced irresolutely toward the gas-fixture, and from thence to where his evening clothes lay spread out on the couch.  For it was the evening of the Freshman Class Dinner.  While he was striving to find energy wherewith to tear himself from the soft cushions and make a light, footsteps sounded outside his door, and some one demanded admission.

“Come in!” he called.

The door swung open, was closed swiftly and softly again, and Neil Fletcher crossed the room.  He looked rather like a tramp; his hat was a misshapen thing of felt from which the water dripped steadily as he tossed it aside; his sweater—­he wore no coat—­was soaking wet; and his trousers and much-darned golf stockings were in scarcely better condition.  His hair looked as though he had just taken his head from a water-bucket, and his face bespoke excitement.

“They’re coming after you, Livingston,” he cried in an intense whisper.  “I heard Cowan telling Carey in the locker-room a minute ago; they didn’t know I was there; it was dark as dark.  They’ve got a carriage, and there are going to be nearly a dozen of them.  I ran all the way as soon as I got on to Oak Street.  There wasn’t time to get any of the fellows together, so I just sneaked right over here.  You can get out now and go—­somewhere—­to our room or the library.  They won’t look for you there, eh?  There’s a fellow at the corner watching, but I don’t think he saw me, and I can settle with him; or maybe you could get out the back way and double round by the railroad?  You can’t stay here, because they’re coming right away; Cowan said—­”

“For heaven’s sake, Fletcher, what do you mean?” asked Livingston.  “You don’t want me to believe that they’re really going to run off with me?”