“There’s your cousin! What’s he coming back for?”
Polly glanced up, to see Harold grinning and waving to her jubilantly.
He jumped from the car as it slowed, and came to meet her.
“How did you get here? I s’posed you were on the way to New York!”
“Had an accident,” he answered cheerfully,—“just below the station, and the track was so blocked up they said we couldn’t get along in hours. I wasn’t going to stay fooling round there, you bet! I said, wasn’t there an auto somewhere that could bring us back to the hotel, and a man asked me what hotel ’twas and all about it up here, and he and another man said they’d get an auto if there was one to be had. So they did—and here I am!”
He wagged his head gleefully.
“I never saw such a boy for pouncing in on people!” laughed Ilga. “But I’m awfully glad you’ve come. Was there anybody hurt?”
“Yes, some of ’em. No one killed, they said. ’Twas a mighty big smash-up, though! My! you’d ’a’ thought the whole world was going to pieces when we came together! And we hadn’t been started much more ’n two minutes! Our car tilted over, and I climbed out through the window! I didn’t even get a scratch.”
“Don’t let’s talk about it,” begged Polly. “I’m so glad you aren’t hurt.”
“Yes,” agreed Harold; “but I’d ’a’ come back here all the same if I had been, and then pop would ’a’ had to let me stay.”