“Some kid, huh?” the visitor said.
“He’s a scream,” Hope whispered.
“Why don’t you come up and stay at the Snailsdale House?” Everett Braggen asked. “There are a couple of rooms vacant now. You here with your folks?”
“Just my mother,” Hope said; “she’s run down.”
“Well, Snailsdale House is the place to get wound up, take it from me. We keep going all right up there—keep the old victrola going overtime. Do you dance?”
“You bet I do.”
“Well, I’d like to know what you’re doing down here then—”
“She knows more about—about woodlore than you do,” Pee-wee shouted, loyal to his pal. But Hope was not aware of his loyalty; she was thinking of the Snailsdale House with its whirl of gayety—and its victrola.
“Are they coming soon, those bo—those people?”
“Sure, next Saturday; same day as the parade; they’ll just miss it. I think they’re all coming on the same day.”