“Then we’ll stay,” said Bob; “I’m glad you’re suited. Where are your trunks?”
“At the station at Piketon.”
“I’ll send the checks over in the morning and have our man bring them here. I have my own gun and some things to bring from the house, and then we’ll be in shape for a good old time in the woods. I guess, boys, a little refreshment won’t hurt us.”
The liberality of Bob Budd’s Uncle Jim and Aunt Ruth, with whom he lived (he having no parents or other near relatives), enabled him to do about as he pleased, so far as his own pleasure and self-indulgence were concerned. He quickly set a substantial lunch before his guests, of which all partook. I am sorry to say that strong drink formed a large part of the repast, all indulging liberally, after which pipes and cigarettes were produced, and they discussed their plans of enjoyment.
Wagstaff and McGovern did not hesitate to admit that they had run away from home for the purpose of having this outing. The fact that their parents were sure to be distressed over their absence was a theme for jest instead of regret.
“They’ll learn to appreciate us when we go back,” said Wagstaff, with a laugh, as he puffed his villainous decoction of tobacco and poison; “you see, if Jim and I went home now they would be apt to scold; but they will be so glad at the end of a fortnight that they’ll kill the fatted calf and make us welcome.”
“A good idea,” commented Bob, passing back the flask to McGovern; “you see, my uncle and aunt love me so dearly that they don’t object to anything I do, though now and then Aunt Ruth holds up Dick Halliard as a model for me.”
“We saw that lovely young man while we were in the stage,” remarked Wagstaff; “he went by us on his bicycle.”
“Yes; he rides a wheel well, but it makes me mad to see him.”
“Why so?”