“What is the Homestead Law?” asked Dorothy.
“I can tell you,” interposed Nat, quickly. “Not just in the wording of the law—the legal phraseology, you know,” he added, his eyes twinkling. “But the upshot of it is, that the Government is willing to bet you one hundred and sixty acres of land against fourteen dollars that you can’t live on it five years without starving to death!”
“How ridiculous!” scoffed Dorothy.
“What is the use of asking these boys anything?” demanded Tavia, her nose in the air. “They’re like all other college freshmen.”
“Don’t say that, Miss,” urged Ned, easily. “Remember that we’re freshmen no longer, but sophs. Or, we will be so rated next fall.”
“Then perhaps you’ll know a little less than you have appeared to know this past year,” said the sharp-tongued Tavia. “As juniors you will know a little less. And when you’re seniors, you’ll probably be still more human—less like Olympic Joves, you know.”
“Compliments fly when quality meets,” quoth Dorothy. “Don’t let’s scrap, children. We can tell the boys something they don’t know. We’ve got to get a hustle on, to quote the provincialism of the locality for which we are bound—the wild and woolly West. A telegram has been already sent to Tavia’s folks. We start West to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” cried Ned and Nat, in surprise.
“The Mater must have changed her mind mighty sudden,” added Ned.
“She did,” said Tavia, nodding. “Or, rather, we changed it for her.”