“—he might ’a’ thought I was a thief and been looking for stolen property.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Gunseyt. “What an imagination you’ve got! But you imagine such impossible things.”
“Perhaps I do,” smiled the boy. “I certainly hope it’s impossible for me to be a thief.”
“I think you’ve been reading too many detective stories,” interposed Mrs. Burton, who had been listening to this conversation with more or less impatience. “I wish you could find something to talk about that would be more interesting to me.”
“I should think this subject would be exciting enough to interest anybody,” said Gunseyt with a smile.
“It might be if there were much evidence of truth in it,” the woman replied with a mock air of wisdom. “The trouble is you both know only a little of what you’re talking about, and you supply the rest with your imagination. You’d make good reporters for yellow newspapers.”
A waiter now came for their orders, and the conversation was interrupted. After he had left them, Mr. Gunseyt changed the subject by saying:
“We’re nearing our journey’s end. We’ll be in New York day after tomorrow. I suppose you’re glad of it.”
“Yes and no,” replied the boy slowly. “I like the trip; I think it’s great, but I’m a little homesick.”
“Not many boys will admit they’re homesick until they have to,” observed Gunseyt. “They’re usually too proud.”