“This week, he says, and here it is Thursday already. The letter was written Monday.”
“By Jove, that’s too bad,” said Roy. “I wonder what made him change his mind.”
“Oh, I know what it means,” said Chub disgustedly. “It means that he can’t find any one to play golf with him, and so he sends for me. He doesn’t mind breaking up my fun.”
“Well, I guess that settles camp,” said Roy. “Were there any other letters, Chub?”
“Oh, yes, I beg your pardon, Dick. There’s one for you, from your father.” He took it out of his pocket and handed it across. Dick opened it and ran his eyes quickly down the single sheet of paper.
“Me too!” he cried. “Dad says he’s coming across and I’m to meet him in New York. He sailed three days after he wrote, and he wrote on Saturday week. He’s on his way now, then, and ought to be here next Tuesday.”
“Well, I guess we’ll shut up camp,” laughed Roy.
“It’s mighty mean, though,” said Chub. “Why, we haven’t been here a month yet!”
“Look here, though,” Roy said. “There’s no use in spoiling Harry’s fun to-day. So we won’t say anything about it until to-morrow, eh?”
“Right you are,” Chub replied. “It’s her birthday and she ought to be allowed to enjoy it. I suppose I’ll have to leave Saturday morning. How about you, Dickums?”