“I should say you are,” Mr. Van Arlen interposed, as glad as the boys themselves.
“And say, Wes,” Artie broke in again, “the doctor told me to-night I’d get to school in two weeks. Good news comes in bunches, eh?”
“Righto! I’ll go home now and write to Uncle Jeb right away.”
“Sure thing.”
“Well I’ll be going along, Art. S’long!”
“G’night!”
The winter came and dragged along interminably for the two boys. They counted the months and talked of little else in their moments of recreation.
The months finally became counted in weeks and the weeks into days, until one morning Westy received a letter from Uncle Jeb telling them to leave Bridgeboro the following week and meet him at the Grand Central Station in New York.
The eventful day was glorious with sunshine and fragrant with the perfume of budding trees and flowers, as Westy and Artie said their final good-bys.
Mr. Martin soberly commanded Westy what to do and what not to do, but the chirping of the birds in the neighboring trees seemed to tell Westy that he could afford to listen, for there ahead of him was the thrilling promise of real adventure.