When Westy departed from Temple Camp leaving Uncle Jeb alone in his glory for the long winter, he was filled with thoughts of the far-off springtime which loomed up beyond the long, cheerless, intervening season of cold and waiting. He would have liked remaining in the deserted camp all winter with old Uncle Jeb and helping him with the winter “chorin’” with which the solitary old occupant always busied himself.
He burst elatedly into his home in Bridgeboro, New Jersey, on the evening before the day on which school opened, his duffel bag over his back, his face wreathed in smiles. His mother and his sister Doris had only that day returned from the mountains and their trunks cluttered the living room. There was a riot of embracing incidental to this family reunion. Ghostly sheets which had protected the upholstered furniture during the season of Mr. Martin’s lonely occupancy were still in evidence and the paintings on the wall were concealed behind these uncompanionable hangings. One of the trunks stood open with part of its contents pulled out and Westy sniffed the pleasing odor of apples, those souvenirs of vacation time which nestle coyly in the corners of homecoming trunks. The disused living room, bereft of all its familiar bric-a-brac, had a musty odor.
Westy sat down on an unopened trunk and poured out his tidings of great joy. “You’re a nice lot, you are, never writing me anything about my big award. You didn’t say anything about it in your last letter, Mom; I guess you were too busy playing tennis, Dorrie. I should worry. Some work I’ve done this last week, believe me! I suppose you know I’m going to Montana next summer with Uncle Jeb and I’m going to live in his cabin in the Rocky Mountains and you can hear eagles screeching where that cabin is; you can hear grizzlies, too. And I can choose a fellow to go with me; that’s what I get for helping Uncle Jeb all summer. Have you seen Mr. Temple, Dad? He can tell you all about it. Gee williger, I told in letters and you didn’t even say anything about it. Didn’t you get the letter I sent you up to Mountainvale, Dorrie? Talk about mountains! Why Mountainvale is—it’s—it’s only⸺”
“I did and I think it’s perfectly glorious,” said Doris, aged nineteen. “You know how it is, Wes, when you’re up in the country, you just never write letters.”
“She has a new beau,” explained Mrs. Martin.
“Oh, what I know about you, Dorrie!” Westy teased in the overflow of his joy. “I should worry about letters. Anyway, I won’t be here to kid you next summer. I bet you’ll be glad of that. Did you can that Arnold fellow?”
“You shouldn’t talk that way,” said Mrs. Martin in mild reproof. “Mr. Captroop is a very nice young man and your father likes him. He’s in the brokerage business in Wall Street and he’s doing very well indeed.”
“He’s a right sort of a young fellow,” said Mr. Martin, “steady and sane.”
It was evident that these remarks of Mr. and Mrs. Martin were intended rather for Doris than for Westy.
“It’s nice to think he’s not insane,” said Doris.