CHAPTER XIII
THE HEN OF WUN SING
But whatever wild schemes were hatching in the heads of the three lads nothing seemed to come of them.
Days followed one another in such peaceful routine that Dorothy felt ashamed of her fears, as well as ashamed of her composure regarding Jim Barlow. The longer he was absent the less they spoke of him. That he was alive, somewhere, all were sure, and that he would return sometime or “when he gets good and ready,” as Alfaretta coolly observed.
“He seemed like a very odd chap, the little I saw of him,” said Leslie, and did not regret the stranger’s absence.
Herbert was loyal and insisted that “Jim was a royal chap—once he shook off his awkward shyness a bit. Why, the yarns Jim Barlow could spin about woodsy things and habits of wild creatures would make you sit right up and take notice. Oh, Jim’s all right—only bashful.”
“That’s so. Why, that fellow, don’t you know, that fellow really plans to go sometime, to Africa, or some other place and live with monkeys just to hear them talk. He—”
“He might have stayed right here with us—or you, Monty dear,” said Molly, sweetly.
Monty merely frowned at her but continued: