Terry Mackson, known as chucklehead, from his habit of bobbing his auburn head when laughing, ignored him completely. He carefully adjusted one soiled glove on his hand and asked Jim gravely: “Pardon me, old fellow, but could you by any chance direct me to the residence of the Mercers?”
“I think I could, if you give me time enough to think,” Jim grinned.
“Then please do so, without unnecessary loss of time,” Terry drawled. That was as far as he got. With a whoop the Mercer brothers piled into the car and thumped him on the back.
Terry Mackson had gone to grammar school with the boys, but had moved to a distant town, where he had worked hard on a farm for his old father. The boys had always admired him for his cheerful kindliness and respected him for his fine self-sacrificing nature. He had worked without complaint for a mean old father, who had even begrudged him his brief time in grammar school. Recently his father had died, and Terry had been living somewhat more happily with his mother and one sister.
When Terry was out of breath, and the old car had jounced dangerously, the boys stopped to catch their breath.
“How in the world did you get here?” Don asked.
“Jim wrote me to come down for a summer cruise,” Terry explained, as he started his car. “Didn’t you know it?”
“He didn’t know a thing about it,” Jim declared, sinking into the back seat. “We were looking for someone to take on our cruise with us, and I heard from Bill Bennet that you were living in Berrymore, so I didn’t say a thing to Don, but wrote to you. Thought I’d put one over on him.”
“And you certainly did that,” Don nodded. “But that’s OK. I’d rather it be Terry than anyone else.”
“Many thanks,” the newcomer murmured.