“Fine! I am going there myself.”
“Got a seat in the parlor car?”
“Yes. Number twelve, car two.”
“Isn’t that wonderful! We have eleven, thirteen and fourteen!” answered Buster Beggs.
“Hello there, Dave Porter!” shouted another youth, as he stepped out of the waiting-room of the depot. “How are you anyway?” and he came up, swinging a banjo-case from his right hand to his left so that he might shake hands. Luke Watson had always been one of the favorite musicians at Oak Hall, playing the banjo and the guitar very nicely, and singing well.
“Mighty glad to see you, Luke!” cried Dave, and wrung the extended hand with such vigor that the former musician of Oak Hall winced. Then Dave looked over the other’s shoulder and saw a third lad approaching––a youth who was as thin as he was tall. “How is our little boy, Shadow, to-day?” he continued, as Maurice Hamilton came closer.
“Great Scott! Am I blind or is it really Dave Porter?” burst out Shadow Hamilton.
“No, you’re not blind, Shadow, and it’s really yours truly,” laughed Dave. And then as another handshake followed he continued: “What are you going down to New York City for? To pick up some new stories?”
“Pick up stories?” queried the former story 193 teller of Oak Hall, in perplexity. “I don’t have to pick them up. I have––”