“If only the good weather holds out,” said Roger, wistfully. And then he added suddenly: “Who is going to sit in front with your uncle, Dave?”
“Why, you are, of course,” broke in Phil, with a grin.
“Why—er—I––” stammered the senator’s son.
“Now, Phil, you know you said you’d like that seat,” broke in Dave. “He’s only fooling you, Roger.” And then Roger looked quite satisfied, for, it might as well be confessed, Roger and Laura were very friendly and liked greatly to be in each other’s company. The senator’s son had a manly regard for Dave’s sister—the same kind of a feeling that our hero had for dear little Jessie.
The trunks and suit-cases had been shipped off, and the big six-cylinder car—a new machine belonging to the Porters—had been brought around, with Dunston Porter at the wheel, for the old hunter and traveler had taken a strong liking to autoing. The girls and boys had piled in, after 18 much handshaking and some kisses, and now the car was rolling out of the grounds, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Wadsworth, Dave’s father, and old Caspar Potts standing on the piazza, waving the travelers adieu.
“Take care of yourself, my boy!” shouted Mr. Porter.
“I will, Dad!” called back Dave. “You take it easy till I get back,” he added, for he knew that his parent had been working hard of late.
“I hate to see Dave go—he is so full of life and good cheer,” murmured Mrs. Wadsworth, with a sigh.
“Best lad in the world,” added her husband.
“Yes, yes! The very best!” came in a quavering voice from old Caspar Potts, and the tears stood in his glistening eyes.