“Uh huh!” muttered Westy.
“What a funereal expression, when he ought to be tickled that he got Father to relent this far,” Doris remarked to her mother.
“I know, my dear, but your brother feels that it is a breach of honor to slight Artie and I’m rather in sympathy with him. Still, I suppose, one must be optimistic and think it is all for the best.”
Westy had reached the corner by this time and looked down the street before turning. The bus that he was to take stopped directly opposite Artie’s house, but as there was still ten minutes to the good he decided he would wait where he was until he saw the bus coming.
He kept consoling himself that it was the better way not to have to face Artie just now. Leaning against a telegraph pole, he tried to whistle softly, but the notes sounded hollow and false. Now and then he would step out into the street looking for the bus, although he knew it wasn’t yet due.
At this one instance, while he was gazing down the long, paved roadway, a figure emerged from one of the houses and limped painfully down the stone walk. Westy dared not draw back or run, as much as he would have liked to, for he knew that it was Artie, and he also knew that Artie had recognized him. There was a lump in his throat as he saw with what effort Artie was hobbling along to meet him half way. He felt despicable as he smiled to this brave pal of his, by way of greeting.
“’Lo, Wes, old top,” Artie said cheerily. “I was just going to try and make it to your house when I saw you. Wondered what happened you haven’t been around. Been sick?”
“Well, y-y-yes!” Westy lied, flushing with embarrassment for doing so.
“Oh, I say, but I’m sorry! Feel better now, huh? Were you coming to see me too?”
“Yes—that is—first I was, but I didn’t think I’d have time. Going to take the bus to Archie’s. Invited there this afternoon,” Westy said, and then to relieve the pounding around his heart: “Don’t feel keen about going, though.”