"Jolly! I wish my mother was like that," breathed Fred, with a sigh of longing.
"Huh! I ain't so sure I like it," confessed Bobby. "There's somethin' goin' on in this house, Fred."
"What do you mean?" demanded his chum, staring at him.
"Pa and mother are always talkin' together, and shutting the door so I can't come in. And they look troubled all the time—I see 'em, when they stare at me so. Something's up, and I don't know what it is."
"Mebbe your father's lost all his money and you'll have to go down and live in one of those shacks by the canal—like Buster Shea's folks," exclaimed the consoling Fred Martin.
"No. 'Tain't as bad as that, I guess. Mother's gone shopping for a lot of new clothes to-day—I heard her tell Pa so at breakfast. So it ain't money. It—it's just like it is before Christmas, don't you know, Fred? When folks are hiding things around so's you won't find 'em before Christmas morning, and joking about Santa Claus, and all that."
"Crickey! Presents?" exclaimed Fred. "'Tain't your birthday coming, Bob?"
"No. I had my birthday, you know, two months ago."
"What do you s'pose it can be, then?"
"I haven't a notion," declared Bobby, shaking his head. "But it's something about me. Something's going to happen me—I don't know what."