“Didn’t I tell you this is Charlie?” Tom snapped. “Paul’s our artist, born and brought up in the Black Forest in Germany. Used to camouflage lunch wagons for the Kaiser in the war. We’ve got all kinds up here; happy family circle. We’re all living happily forever after, hey Charlie?”
“And working,” Charlie said.
“Working?” asked Brent.
“Yes, do you want to get out and walk home?” Tom asked.
“Is Tot Burke still with you?” I queried.
“Yep. So is Skipper Tim; you remember him. He’s building boats for the lake just now. Unit production, hey Charlie? You remember Piker Pete, the fire-lookout up near Temple Camp? He’s here too; going to stick all summer. Says he could never go back to the Catskills now, he’d be kept awake by the noise.”
“Speaking of noises,” Brent said, “hasn’t your Ford changed from a baritone to a soprano?”
“You’ll be glad enough to hear any kind of a friendly noise up here,” Tom said.
“How far is it to the drug store?” Brent queried.
“Heaven help me if I should run out of good cigars,” I said.