“It’s Andy Rush!” observed Jerry, not looking around. He knew the voice well enough.
“Yes, and he’s hopping up and down on the dock,” said Bob.
“Let him hop,” went on Jerry. “He’ll give us all the fidgets on a hot day like this. Let him hop.”
And let him hop they did, much to the disgust of small Andy Rush, who ran back and forth, begging and pleading to be taken for a ride in the motor boat. But our friends had other plans.
They very much enjoyed their dinner at the river-house pavilion, but, through it all, Jerry could not forget the sight of the professor and the foreman talking about the clay.
“But I guess the plaster company—whatever sort of a concern it is—thinks it can make use of the mud as a sort of by-product,” mused Jerry. “Probably there’s so much of it they don’t want to cart it away unless they can find a use for it. Well, I wish, for mother’s sake, it had some value; but if it hasn’t—it hasn’t—that’s all.”
“Well, we’d better begin to think of where we’re going for our vacation,” remarked Ned, a little later, shoving back his chair, for the meal was finished.
“That’s right,” agreed Bob. “I hope if we go anywhere we have as——”
“Good grub as this—isn’t that what you were going to say, Chunky?” finished Jerry, with a laugh.