“No.” John shook his head. “No, I ain’t ever been there—yet. I’m going some day, though. It must be pretty big, ain’t it?”
“Awfully! It—it’s almost too big. You see, there are so many people there that you never get to know many of them.”
“That’s funny,” said John.
“Maybe it sounds funny, but it isn’t. One summer mother and I went to a little place in Connecticut, just a village it was, and after we’d been there two or three days I knew lots of boys, about three or four times as many as I knew at home. I suppose if I went to school I’d know more fellows.”
“I cal’late I know about every fellow in West Bayport,” said John, “and lots of fellows on the Neck, too; fellows that just come there summers.”
“Then I guess you’re never—lonely,” said Claire wistfully.
“Lonely! Gee, no! I wouldn’t be, anyhow; there’s too much to do and see. There’s always boats coming in and going out and tugs skipping around. And then there’s the big salt ships from Spain and Italy and a revenue cutter now and then; and the lighthouse tender, too. And in summer there’s most always some of the battleships in the harbor.”
“I’d like that place,” said Claire decisively. “What did you say the name of it was?”
“West Bayport,” answered John proudly. “I cal’late it’s about as nice a little town as there is. And pretty, too.”
“It must be very—very interesting,” said Claire. “Perhaps I can get mother to go there this summer, if we don’t go abroad.”