of the youth, producing a troubled, sombre expression
Now and then the clouds seemed to shadow the good-looking, tanned face
of the youth, producing a troubled, sombre expression. The truth is that
Master Clinton Boyd Thayer was lonesome and, although he would have
denied it vigorously, a little bit homesick. (At sixteen one may be
homesick even though one scoffs at the notion.) Clinton had left his
home at Cedar Run, Virginia, the evening before, had changed into a
sleeper at Washington just before midnight, and reached New York very
early this morning. From there, although he had until five in the
afternoon to reach Brimfield Academy, he had departed after a breakfast
eaten in the Terminal and had arrived at Brimfield at a little before
nine. An hour had sufficed him to register and unpack his bag and trunk
in the room assigned to him in Torrence Hall. Since that time–and it
was now almost twelve o’clock–he had wandered about the school. He had
peeped into the other dormitories and the recitation building, had
explored the gymnasium from basement to trophy room and, finally, had
loitered across the athletic field to the grand-stand, where, for the
better part of an hour, he had been sitting in the sun, getting lonelier
every minute.