“Gee!” exclaimed Jim. “That doesn’t give us very much time. Let’s see,” as he snatched up a newspaper and scanned the top line. “To-day’s the sixteenth. We’ll have to get a wiggle on.”
“Bah Jove,” lisped Reggie. “It’s bally short notice, don’t you know? How long will you fellows be gone?”
“Just about six months,” said Joe, his face lengthening as he reflected on what it meant to be all that time away from Mabel.
“What’s all this pow-wow about?” came a merry voice from the door, as the girls tripped in, their arms about each other’s waist.
“I’m glad we girls aren’t as talkative as you men,” said Clara, mischievously.
“When we do talk we at least say something,” added Mabel. “What is it, Joe?”
“I’m afraid it’s rather bad news in a way,” said Joe. “I’ve just got a letter from McRae in which he tells me that he’s completed all arrangements for a baseball tour around the world. You know, Mabel, that I spoke to you about it just before we left New York. But it was only a vague idea then and something of the kind is 53 talked about at the end of every baseball season. Usually though, it only ends in talk, and the teams make a barnstorming trip to San Francisco or to Cuba. But this time it seems to have gone through all right. And now Mac is calling upon Jim and me to go along.”
“My word!” broke in Reggie, “anyone would think it was a bally funeral to hear you talk and see your face. I should think you’d be no-end pleased to have a chance to go.”
To tell the truth, neither Joe nor Jim seemed elated at the prospect. Joe’s eyes sought Mabel, while Jim’s rested on Clara, and neither one of those young ladies was so obtuse as not to know what the young men were thinking.
“When do you have to go?” asked Clara, soberly.