“Gee!” he exclaimed as he tumbled out of bed, “I’m losin’ time. But I reckon I’d better wait till breakfast is over.”
“Just what is all this hurry about?” asked Mrs. Leighton. “You must remember, my son, this is not a hotel.”
“Yes, I know,” explained the boy, “but there is so much to do to-day.”
“Well, please don’t get excited,” said his mother with some severity, “we’ll proceed with our own affairs when it suits our host and hostess. And remember, Andy, you are not to accept a boat from Captain Anderson as a gift.”
“I understand,” answered the boy, with an attempt to control his enthusiasm. “But, say, mother, look at this.”
He caught up the map he had so eagerly examined the night before. His hair tousled, and still in his bare feet, Andy spread it before his perplexed mother. “Here, look,” he went on, “all these things are islands, the Bahama Islands, the West India Islands—that’s where everything comes from you read about—sponges and tropical fruits, bananas and things, and,” he looked up, his eyes blazing, “we could go there if we had a boat—they’re right over here—”
“Andrew,” said his mother slowly, as she motioned him toward his undonned clothes, “you are here because your father couldn’t come and because I couldn’t come alone. When we have looked into your dead uncle’s affairs and arranged them as well as we can, we are going back home. We are not going to the Bahamas.”
“Yes’m,” answered Andy meekly.
“From the minute we landed here, you’ve been excited. You seem to think this is the beginning of some remarkable adventure. It isn’t. It is a business trip.”
“Yes’m.”