CHAPTER XVI—THEY’RE OFF
There wasn’t a pair of feet on the paved sidewalks of Bridgeboro that night that stepped any lighter than Westy’s. He seemed to be nearing Artie’s house on air and there were a thousand tiny voices all singing inside him at once.
The night felt frosty and damp after the rather warm afternoon, but as far as Westy was concerned summer dwelt within his heart eternal.
Ringing the bell he waited, excitement and joy kindling his cheeks with radiance. Mr. Van Arlen opened the door.
“Where’s Art?” he asked, stepping inside quickly.
“How is your father?” Mrs. Van Arlen called, hearing Westy’s voice.
“Getting on fine,” Westy answered with gladness in his voice. “Where’s Art?”
“You’re a fine boy, Westy,” Mr. Van Arlen now remarked, as though he hadn’t heard Westy’s question. “I hear the bus company are going to reward you for your bravery and no doubt you’ll get a medal from your troop for such heroism.”
“Yeh? Has Art gone to bed?” he queried, indifferent as to what rewards or medals he might get and intent only on bearing the glad tidings to his friend.
“Here I am, Wes,” Artie shouted from the living-room. “What’s all the excitement?”