Granny was calling, and soon our little friend made his way up hill again, and was busy with his morning meal.
“Granny goin’ ’way?” was his question, as he looked up from his oatmeal. He had happened to notice that Grandma was busy about preparations.
“Yes, Ginkle. Granny’s going away for the day with some friends,” was the answer.
Grandfather’s summer home was a pleasant place for Ginkle to visit. A five-year-old boy always likes his grandfather and grandmother. This was now the second summer that he was spending at Three Pines. The cottage took its name from the three splendid big pine trees that stood right in front of the house, crowning the hill. The shore line below formed a semi-circle, against the foot of which the bright waves of the lake beat in the early sunshine. The sand was not so thick as to prevent a fresh growth of grass over the hill-top and about the house. The lake was somewhat over a half mile wide at this place. The launches sped back and forth on their errands up and down the lake. On the other side, under the shadow of the pine woods that lined the shore, could be seen the boats of the early fishermen.
Our little boy had hardly waked up yet, in spite of his breakfast, to judge from the quiet way in which he stood under the three pines, sucking his thumb. He was tall and slim for a boy of his age. A big head rose above his shoulders, covered with a shock of light brown hair. He was about to toddle forward once more toward the steps that led down to the water, when there was a call—
“Hey—little boy—Ginkle!”
This time it was Grandfather who called.
“Come on, Ginkle—Granny’s leaving now.”
On the chair by the table was Granny’s bag, all ready, and soon they were following her along the path to the rear fence, where a car stood waiting. Mrs. Joyce was going out for a ride, apparently, and Granny was to go with her.
“Ginkle wants a ride?”