“How did you hear about Temple Camp, Dub?” I asked him.
He said, “There’s a big house where I deliver groceries, and the fellow that lives there told me about it. He was up here a couple of years ago. Horace Baker, do you know him? His father’s president of a bank or something.”
“I don’t remember him,” I said.
We just sat there on the baggage truck swinging our legs. He said, “What’s Will doing, I wonder?”
I said, “Oh he’s watching to see if any Scouts he knows get off the train. They’re coming up every day now. Not many are going back this time of year.”
“I hold the prize on that,” Dub said.
I said, “Will you please not talk that way, Dub. Don’t you think I feel mean enough already. Gee, I don’t know what I ought to do.”
“Yes you do,” Dub said.
By that time the north bound train had stopped and people were getting on and off and a trainman was calling, “Train for Albany.” All of a sudden, good-night magnolia, along the platform came Will smiling all over his face and on one side of him was Mr. Dawson and on the other side of him was Mrs. Dawson. And Mabel Dawson (that’s Will’s sister) was trying to get at Will and put her arm through his all the while he was walking between his mother and father.
“Jiminy, Christopher, crinkums!” I said. “Look who’s here.” And I just jumped down and ran up to them. Dub stayed where he was. That’s just like him—bashful.