“YOU WILL CERTAINLY BE COMING UP TO COLLEGE NEXT YEAR?”
The boys were sprawled flat on their stomachs in the warm sweet grass, heads on hands, at the very edge of the ridge, peering off across the tops of the pine trees and cedars that rose from the ravine between the ridges almost to a level with their heads. They looked eastward and their position commanded a view of the Strathsey river, the harbor in the bend of the Neck, the broad beach and bay, and the open ocean beyond. They could see the House crews out beyond Deigr Light; they were turning the noses of their boats toward the harbor again in the hope of getting back for supper. A dozen or more sailboats were in the river. Tony and Reggie had been sailing, and had stopped at the Rocking-stone on their way back to the School.
“Peachy day, Reg, isn’t it?” said Tony, for the thousandth time sniffing of the good sea breeze.
“Well, rather,” drawled Reggie for reply. He was still languid, individual, different, but distinctly more purposeful, less afflicted with the air of being perpetually bored than when we first observed him some four or five years ago.
“Doesn’t it make you sort of sicky to feel you can’t have it all the time?”
“It does, boy; as you yourself before long will be finding out.”
“Ah—I know.”