CHAPTER XXVI. GHOSTS THAT WALKED FOR BERTRAM
October proved to be unusually mild, and about the middle of the month, Bertram, after much unselfish urging on the part of Billy, went to a friend's camp in the Adirondacks for a week's stay. He came back with an angry, lugubrious face—and a broken arm.
“Oh, Bertram! And your right one, too—the same one you broke before!” mourned Billy, tearfully.
“Of course,” retorted Bertram, trying in vain to give an air of jauntiness to his reply. “Didn't want to be too changeable, you know!”
“But how did you do it, dear?”
“Fell into a silly little hole covered with underbrush. But—oh, Billy, what's the use? I did it, and I can't undo it—more's the pity!”
“Of course you can't, you poor boy,” sympathized Billy; “and you sha'n't be tormented with questions. We'll just be thankful 'twas no worse. You can't paint for a while, of course; but we won't mind that. It'll just give Baby and me a chance to have you all to ourselves for a time, and we'll love that!'
“Yes, of course,” sighed Bertram, so abstractedly that Billy bridled with pretty resentment.
“Well, I like your enthusiasm, sir,” she frowned. “I'm afraid you don't appreciate the blessings you do have, young man! Did you realize what I said? I remarked that you could be with Baby and me,” she emphasized.