“You’ve been kept still so long, Billy Bradford,” said Mr. Prescott at breakfast the next Tuesday morning, “that it seems to me it would do you good to move around a little. Think so yourself?”
“Seems that way to me,” answered Billy.
“Last night,” said Mr. Prescott, “I called up that yellow-haired doctor of yours——”
“Dr. Crandon,” interrupted Billy, “is a friend of mine. His hair is only light brown.”
“Well then, begging your pardon, Dr. Crandon says he thinks, now that the weather is cooler, a motor trip would do you good.
“When I asked him whether he would like to go, he said that he would, and that he could start by Thursday. With one on the front seat with Joseph, there’s a seat to spare. I’ve been wondering——”
Billy’s eyes were so full of wishing that Mr. Prescott asked:
“Who is it, Billy?”
“Of course—I don’t suppose—I should like——” said Billy floundering around, because he wasn’t quite sure how Mr. Prescott would feel about inviting Uncle John.
“You needn’t,” said Mr. Prescott, “go through the formality of telling me. There’s only one person in the world on your mind, Billy Bradford, when your eyes look like that.