Down at the Western Union office in Bridgeboro, the operator sauntered out in his shirtsleeves and smilingly watched the distant writing, which he understood.
Stop all autos send car with young folks back to Bennett’s sure not practice serious.
“Good-night,” said Roy, and two fanlike swings of the misty column told that it was over. “If they haven’t passed Westy’s yet, we win. Shake, Tom,” he added, gayly, “You did fine—you’re a fiend at it! Wouldn’t you rather be here than at Conny’s party—honest?”
“Would I?”
“Now we’ll rustle down the hill and see the bunch co’me back—if they do. Oh, cracky, don’t you hope they do?”
“Do I?” said Tom.
“Like the Duke of Yorkshire, hey? Ever hear of him? Up the hill and down again. We’ll bring the sign up for a souvenir, what do you say?”
“Mebbe it oughter go back where it come from,” said Tom, slowly.
“Guess you’re right.”
“Ever go scout’s pace?” said Roy.