“There aren’t any ribbons and——”
“Well, you get my idea,” continued Joe untroubledly. “Me, I sort of feel freer and more contented in a log-cabin. I suppose it’s all what you’re used to, eh?”
Myron made no reply for a minute. They were loading the big moving-van now and he watched them morosely. He half wished they’d drop that grey-enamelled bookcase over the side. At last he said desperately: “Look here, Joe! If I dump all that truck into the warehouse will you stay?”
It was the first time he had ever called Joe by his first name and that youth looked almost startled. “Why—why, you don’t want to do that!” he stammered.
“Yes, I do,” replied Myron doggedly. “That’s just what I do want. It was a mistake, sending it. I sort of felt so when mother suggested it, but she set her heart on it, you know: thought I’d be more comfortable and all if I had my own things. But they’d look awfully silly, all those light grey tables and chairs and bookcases, and I don’t want them there. So—so I’m going to let these folks store them until spring. There’s no use hurting mother’s feelings, and I’ll just let her think that I’m using them; unless she asks me. When spring comes I’ll ship them back. And you’ll stay where you are, won’t you?”
“Gosh! Say, this is so sudden, kiddo! And it sure seems an awful shame to hide all those corking things. But—why, if you really don’t want them and—and you don’t mind me being sort of rough and—and all that, I’ll stick around.”
“Honest, Joe?”
“Sure, kiddo!”
Myron drew a long breath of relief and turned to the man in charge of the job. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Take those things to the warehouse, will you? And tell them I’ll be around tomorrow and fix things up.”