“It’s an awful lot to ask of a fellow, but I suppose we can manage it,” said Joe, and Jimmy, after pretending to think the matter over very seriously, finally said the same.
They were all overjoyed at the prospect of such a trip, and had little difficulty in getting the consent of their parents. Mr. Fennington eventually consented to take the radio boys with him, and there ensued several days of bustle and excited packing. At length all was ready, and they found themselves, one bright spring morning, installed in a big seven-passenger touring car en route for Braxton Woods, as the strip of timberland was called.
“This is the life!” chortled Jimmy, as the miles rolled away behind. “Fresh air, bright sun, the song of birds, and—doughnuts!” and he produced a bulging paper bag full of his favorite dainty.
“How do you get that way?” asked Joe severely, although he eyed the bag hungrily. “The ‘song of doughnuts!’ You’re the only Doughnut that I ever heard of that could sing, and you’re no great shakes at it.”
“Oh, you know what I meant!” exclaimed Jimmy. “At least, you’re thicker than usual if you don’t.”
“Do you hear that, Joe?” laughed Bob. “The boy’s telling you that you’re thick. Are you going to stand for that?”
“He knows it’s true. And, anyway, he doesn’t dare talk back for fear I won’t give him one of these delicious little morsels,” said Jimmy placidly. “How about it, Joe?”
“That’s taking mean advantage of a poor fellow who’s practically dying of starvation,” said Joe. “Give me a doughnut, and I won’t talk back—until after I’ve eaten it, anyway.”
“That’s all right then,” said his plump friend. “After you’ve eaten one, you’ll feel so grateful to me that you’ll regret all the low-down things you’ve ever said about me.”
“Oh, you’re the finest pal any fellow ever had,” declared Joe. “How many doughnuts have you left, Jimmy?”