“Mother says she has sent thirty,” said Hugh, “instead of twenty-five, so we’ll be in funds again, eh? Poor old Bowles is all upset. It rather sounds as if he meant to come right up here and rescue me from something. I fancy I’d best send him a wire and calm him down. If Bowles ever tried to travel anywhere by himself he’d get lost as sure as shooting, poor old chap!”
Bert smiled as he read Bowles’ message. “My lady left Thursday for New York. We have no address. Expect back Wednesday. If anything we can do Master Hugh please telegraph immediate. Could leave on one hour notice. Bowles.”
“You’d better send him a wire, Hugh, or he will be walking in on us. Queer idea to call your mother ‘my lady.’ Mighty nice and respectful, though. At home the servants always call my mother ‘the missus’! You’ll have to beat it down to the village tomorrow and get the tin. I’ll go along, if you like. It’s mighty decent of her to send that extra five. I wish my folks had those pretty thoughts. It’s like pulling teeth to get a dollar more than my allowance from dad!”
“Tell you what we’ll do with that pound,” said Hugh, looking up from the telegram he was formulating for the troubled Bowles. “We’ll buy some tuck and have a feast up here tomorrow night. What do you say?”
Bert looked wistful, but shook his head. “You forget that we’re in training, old man,” he said regretfully.
“That’s so. We couldn’t, I fancy. Well, we’ll postpone the party until after the Mount Morris game. It’s a long old time to wait, though, what?”
“Rotten,” agreed Bert. “Besides, that fiver will be spent long before that.”
“No, it won’t. Or, if it is, there’ll be another. There, that ought to settle Bowles. ‘Mother heard from. Everything hunky here. Unpack your bag.’ That’s only nine words, though, and I can send ten, can’t I?”