Bill slapped his knee. “I’ll go! This is my lucky day.”
“What do you mean, your lucky day?”
“My birthday, kid. That’s what.”
“Many happy returns,” grinned Charlie, and yawned. “How old does that make you?”
“Seventeen,” replied Bill, and he too, yawned.
“That’s the nerts,” sighed Charlie. “I won’t have one for four years!”
“What? Born on February twenty-ninth?”
“Yep—ain’t it the limit?”
Bill laughed. “Too bad. But did your father say anything else?”
“Heaps. About how I should drive to get here. I was to drive all night, go to the Copley-Plaza in Boston and sleep there Tuesday. Tuesday night—that’s tonight, I was to leave there at eight and take the Post Road to Darien. From there on, he told me exactly how to find your house. Lucky he did. I’d never have reached here after those bozos held up the car, otherwise.”