“That he is,” added Sam Brewster, shaking Paul’s hand heartily. So the party of five continued on the journey, smiling as they pictured the glad surprise to be given the family at the Studio. Little did they dream that the Studio family were busy preparing for a gladsome Christmas for them all. For Mr. Latimer had told them about the telegram from Pebbly Pit, and that he had heard from Tom that he and John and Paul were going to join the party coming East. But he did not say that he, incognito, had mailed the tickets.
The Twentieth Century had a long line of Pullmans to take to New York that trip, and it was small wonder that passengers having berths in the last coach, should fail to meet anyone traveling in the first one. So it was with speechless amazement, that the Brewsters met the Maynards at Grand Central Station when both parties were waiting to get taxi-cabs.
“Well, well, Ah believe it’s Mr. Maynard!” exclaimed Sam Brewster, in his deep western thunder.
“Brewster? so it is! Indeed I am glad to see you here. Come to cheer up the little girl, eh?” and Eleanor’s father grasped the ranchman’s big hands.
Mrs. Brewster and her two young male companions (Tom had gone to telephone) were now introduced to Barbara and Mrs. Maynard. The latter had never met the Brewster family, and Barbara, thinking it wiser to assume indifference, smiled coldly.
“We’re stopping at the Park Hotel, Brewster—what about you folks? Might as well go where we do,” suggested Mr. Maynard.
“I wired there for accommodations; Polly mentioned it in several of her letters as being quite near the Studio.”
“Fine! Then we will go right along. Here Taxi! eight of us and baggage.”
“You mean seven, Mr. Maynard?” ventured John, politely.
“No—didn’t you know Pete was here with us? He came on another coach with some chums who were coming East.”