“All right—if you want to know, I’m just going to pay the Mitchells a nice friendly call when we get in Santa Fe, that’s all!”
“I see,” said Rip. “You’re too deep for me.”
They returned from the Redmond cottage early in the evening. Walking back by way of the brook, each one seemed listening to all the familiar sounds for the last time.
Lola had insisted upon them staying longer, but they had much packing to do in order to leave early enough in the morning.
“We’ll miss this little old bunch of chatter,” Billy remarked about the brook.
“We’ll miss it all,” Mr. Wilde said, “except when it rains.”
“What’d you think of Old Scout to-day, Westy?” Mr. Wilde inquired.
“I liked him fine, but he didn’t stay long enough for me to get acquainted with him. Didn’t care much about the would-be’s, though.”
“No, who could? They seemed even to be dissatisfied with themselves!”
“Yes,” Westy said, “I heard them quarreling. I stepped on three lighted cigarettes while they were there. There’d be no forests at all if the would-be’s came here very often.”