“When do you think it’ll get here?”
“Will you let me drive her?”
“I may, mayn’t I, papa?”
The beleaguered father shook off the eager questioners with:
“Now, boys, the card says that the machinist who is to deliver the automobile will probably arrive to-morrow afternoon. I think we’ll have to make it a holiday, so you will be on hand when it comes.”
“Now, father,” remonstrated Mrs. Treat quickly, “that is unwise. They’d much better be in school.”
“Tut, tut, mother! Boys must have some good times, I think.”
“Oh, father, do let us!” petitioned the boys, and a cheery nod satisfied them that the victory was theirs.
Very little indeed was accomplished by the Treat boys the next morning, and kind Miss Clinton, their teacher, was at a loss for an explanation of the wriggling, twisting and manifest uneasiness possessing them.
