But the creaky old carriage had not progressed over a block when Bob roused himself with a snort. Then, even in the excitement of the greeting, the alert eyed Bob noticed that the carriage was bound cityward.
“We ought to be on the way to the cigar factory. Where are we going?” he exclaimed anxiously. “It’s nearly one o’clock.”
“To luncheon, of course,” answered his mother. “You boys haven’t eaten, have you?”
They had not. Neither did they seem anxious to do so.
“Luncheon, your granny,” protested Bob. “Those who go on the aeroplane can eat with Mac in the camp at two o’clock. The fellow that stays is going to have crab gumbo with Captain Joe—that’s all figured out.”
“Who is to go?” asked Mrs. Balfour laughing. “I suppose you’ll insist on going,” she added, turning to her son.
“Oh, that’s all arranged,” interrupted Hal Burton. “My turn’ll come later. Bob’s the real works, and Tom is the understudy.”
“Yo’ ain’t objectin’ are you, Madam?” broke in Tom quickly.
“I gave up long ago,” answered Mrs. Balfour, with a half sigh and a half laugh. “But Bob had better hurry before the story printed this morning reaches Chicago. They always put in names, you know, and the newspapers up there are sure to call up Mr. Balfour and ask if Bob is his son. You know what that will mean?”