“Listen, Artie,” Westy said. “I’ll tell you now that you were the one I was going to ask to go out West with me. I guess you know that, don’t you?”
“How should I know it?”
“Well, you just didn’t let yourself think of it, but anyway, you were the one. The only reason why I didn’t say anything about it up at camp was because—well, you know how my father is. I was kind of afraid all the time that maybe he’d say nix and I wanted for you not to be disappointed. I kind of didn’t let myself think of it till I got back, but all the while I was a little sort of shaky about what he’d say.”
“What did he say?” Artie asked.
“Oh, he’s just sort of begun to say I can’t go; I know how it’ll be. It’s all off and I suppose I have to write to Uncle Jeb. Dad says your folks wouldn’t let you go either after what happened to you.”
“Oh, yes, they would,” Artie laughed; “they’d be glad to get rid of me, I guess. My father said when I⸺ He said how a soldier⸺”
“Yes, what did he say when you⸺ You asked him if you could go in case I asked you, now didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, I did,” Artie said, embarrassed, but still amused at himself.
“So you wanted me to ask you, you old⸺”
“Don’t hit me on the foot,” Artie laughed, as Westy’s arm was raised in good-humored menace; “any place except on the foot.”