There proved to be no difficulty in getting leave for the day, and almost before he realized it they had reached the cantonment entrance and found Jim Cavanaugh driving a sleigh slowly up and down the road. His greeting was quite as eager and enthusiastic as McBride’s had been; and presently, tucked between the two, thick furs drawn up to his chin, Farren relaxed with a contented sigh. The snow drove against his face, bringing the blood tingling responsive to his cheeks. The merry jingle of the bells sounded in his ears. On either hand the white countryside swept by, veiled, mysterious, pleasantly unfamiliar behind that curtain of flying particles.
Pleasantly mysterious, too, was their destination. Farren tried to wheedle something out of the boys, but both refused to give him any satisfaction. They were full of news, having quantities of things to tell him of what had happened during his illness. Chief among them was the exciting incident of the hidden wireless and how the captured men had proved to be German spies of the most flagrant type.
Seeing that his curiosity must remain ungratified, Farren resigned himself to the inevitable and listened with much interest to the tale, which culminated in the arrival of Government Secret Service agents, who heartily congratulated the scouts and carried off the plotters to, as Cavvy put it—“Goodness knows where.”
After all, there was a distinct pleasure in just sitting there, warm, comfortable, relaxed, taking part in the boys’ gay chatter, conscious of their friendly interest with back of it all that intangible sense of a surprise party looming in the future.
In the town they made several stops where bulky, mysterious looking parcels were tucked into the back of the sleigh, adding to the feeling of festivity. Farren rather expected that they would then head for one of the boys’ homes, where he would probably be invited to take part in the family Christmas dinner. But to his surprise Cavanaugh drove straight down the main street and on out into the country again.
“Look here, son,” he said with mock severity, “you’re not going to try any kidnapping stunt, I hope. Don’t forget I’ve got to report back at camp before nine o’clock, or it’ll be the guard house for mine.”
Cavvy grinned. “Don’t worry,” he laughed. “We’ll return you before that in first class shape, charges paid and all the rest of it.”
“Only the parcel will be a few pounds heavier than when it was posted,” chuckled McBride.
Farren smiled, but inwardly was puzzled. So it was a Christmas dinner, then—but where? He knew most of the Wharton scouts well; a few of them intimately. Not one, so far as he could recall, lived as far out as this.
His bewilderment increased when the cutter left the main road and turned to the right into a country road that led back into the hills. It curved along, winding through bits of woods, past level white stretches which might have been swamp or meadow land, or between bush-strewn pastures. The storm had lessened a little and presently the red front of a low farm house loomed warmly through the snow. But they passed that, too, and a little later, when Cavanaugh pulled the horse again sharply to the right into a narrow, twisting track, Farren gave up all speculation, and settled back comfortably to enjoy his outing.